Crazy in Love

a novel by
Annabelle Costa
Crazy in Love

© 2017 by Annabelle Costa. All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission
from the author.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the authors’ imagination, and are not to be construed as real.
None of the characters in the book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
Table of Contents
Year One
Chapter 1: Anna
Chapter 2: Matt
Chapter 3: Anna
Chapter 4: Matt
Chapter 5: Anna
Chapter 6: Matt
Chapter 7: Anna
Chapter 8: Matt
Chapter 9: Anna
Chapter 10: Matt
Chapter 11: Anna
Chapter 12: Matt
Chapter 13: Anna
Chapter 14: Matt
Year Two
Chapter 15: Matt
Chapter 16: Anna
Chapter 17: Matt
Chapter 18: Anna
Chapter 19: Matt
Chapter 20: Anna
Chapter 21: Matt
Chapter 22: Anna
Year Three
Chapter 23: Matt
Chapter 24: Anna
Chapter 25: Matt
Chapter 26: Anna
Chapter 27: Matt
Chapter 28: Anna
Chapter 29: Matt
Chapter 30: Anna
Chapter 31: Matt
Chapter 32: Anna
Chapter 33: Matt
Chapter 34: Anna
Chapter 35: Matt
Chapter 36: Matt
Chapter 37: Anna
Chapter 38: Matt
Chapter 39: Anna
Chapter 40: Matt
Chapter 41: Anna
Year Four
Chapter 42: Matt
Chapter 43: Anna
Chapter 44: Matt
Chapter 45: Anna
 Chapter 46: Matt
Chapter 47: Anna
Chapter 48: Matt
Chapter 49: Anna
Chapter 50: Matt
Chapter 51: Anna
Chapter 52: Matt
Chapter 53: Anna
Year Five
Chapter 54: Matt
Chapter 55: Anna
Chapter 56: Matt
Chapter 57: Anna
Chapter 58: Matt
Chapter 59: Anna
Chapter 60: Matt
Chapter 61: Anna
Chapter 62: Matt
Chapter 63: Anna
Chapter 64: Matt
Chapter 65: Anna
Chapter 66: Matt
Chapter 67: Anna
Chapter 68: Matt
Year Six: Matt
Acknowledgements
Year One
Chapter 1: Anna
“Anna, this is completely unacceptable!”
My boss, Peter Glassman, is yelling at me. This is status quo. I’ve worked at my current job for six years, and it’s hard to recall a day when Peter
hasn’t yelled at me for something. I’m used to the sight of him with his brown eyes wide, his face slightly pink, and all the veins standing out in his neck.
One day, Peter will be yelling at me and drop dead of a heart attack. He will be screaming the word “unacceptable,” and somewhere between the “un” and
the “able,” he will clutch his chest, his beady eyes will roll up in his head, and that will be it. He will be dead.
I will have killed Peter Glassman.
Right now, Peter is maybe in his late forties. I figure at the rate his waistline is growing, he’s got maybe another five years before I kill him. Ten if he
starts taking medications for his blood pressure or cholesterol, both of which are almost certainly high based on the lunches I’ve seen him consuming in the
break room.
“It’s unacceptable, and furthermore, it’s unprofessional.”
I know from all the previous times that Peter has yelled at me that I just need to wait it out. At some point, his voice will start getting tired or he’ll
grow hungry or he’ll be late for a meeting. Then I’ll be off the hook. Even though I actually haven’t done anything wrong. As usual.
You might be wondering why my boss is screaming at me, and I wouldn’t blame you. The reason this time is because of the can collection that I keep
in my cubicle.
I’m sure you’re thinking to yourself: Okay, Anna, I was with you until you said you collected cans. Yes, I know it’s not the usual thing to collect cans.
I’m aware of that. But my retort is: Why not? What do normal people collect? Stamps? Matchboxes? Coins? Why are cans worse than any of that?
When I’m at the grocery store shopping, sometimes I see a can and it looks special to me in some way. I can’t say why. But I know it’s something I
want to have and keep. So I add that can to my collection.
Right now I’ve got twenty-one cans in my cubicle. It isn’t that many. They’re neatly stacked. Honestly, my cubicle is far more organized and cleaner
than the vast majority of my coworkers’ cubicles. But somehow, nobody can wrap their head around my cans.
I had zoned out on the conversation when I recognize Peter has asked me a question and is waiting for a response. I grasp at the recording thread in my
brain, trying to rewind the last few seconds and remember what he asked me. I can’t. It’s been deleted, or else, it was never recorded in the first place. But
he’s staring at me, so I recognize that I have to say something.
“This wouldn’t be a problem if I had an office,” I finally blurt out.
Peter just gapes at me. His teeth are bad too. I know he drinks lots of soda, which is awful for the teeth. Every time I come into his office, he has a can
of Coca Cola open on his desk. Somehow that’s acceptable but my collection of closed, clean cans is not.
“So if you had an office, you’d stop?” Peter has a furrow between his brows. He seems desperate. Maybe he’s caught a glimpse of his impending
coronary in my cubicle. “Is that what you’re saying?”
I would love an office. That would solve so many of my problems. But I hope he doesn’t think that would mean giving up my can collection. “No, I’m
saying that if I had an office, nobody would see. So it wouldn’t be a problem.”
I hear a loud snort from the cubicle next to mine. That would be Matt. Matt Harper. Matt has occupied the cubicle next to mine for the last three years,
four months, five days, six hours, and… well, about seven minutes, give or take a few seconds. It’s hard to be completely precise with these things.
I’m not what you would call a people person. I don’t like most people. In fact, I would say that I actively dislike the majority of people I meet. But I
don’t dislike Matt Harper. He’s a difficult person to dislike. He is approximately five feet eleven inches tall, which makes him just above the average
height for a man in this country, which is tall enough that he commands respect but not so tall as to be intimidating. He also has brown eyes, which is the
most common eye color in this country, and he always looks me straight in my own eyes when he speaks to me. He has brown hair that is trimmed short, in
a professional manner. His solid, athletic build indicates that he clearly takes good care of himself, which is verified by his white teeth. There is nothing I
respect more than good oral hygiene.
Even more importantly, I believe that Matt Harper is a genuinely nice person. Which is not something I can say about many of my other coworkers.
Matt is friends with most people who work in our office. He and I are not friends—I will not delude myself that he considers me a friend, despite the
fact that he invited me to a New Year’s Eve party at his house last year. (I did not attend.) He and I are friendly. He smiles at me when we exchange
pleasantries. He doesn’t make fun of me within earshot, which is more than I can say for most people who work here.
“Look, Anna,” Peter says to me, his face close enough to mine that I instinctively take a step back. I can smell his breath. He ate something with
pickles for lunch—likely a cheeseburger. “I mean, doesn’t it bother you that everyone is making fun of these cans? You know what people call you, don’t
you?”
Yes. I know what they call me.
They call me Crazy Anna.
Chapter 2: Matt
“Anna, this is completely unacceptable!”
I hear the voice of my boss Peter Glassman coming from the cubicle next to mine. He sounds angry, which isn’t a surprise. He’s always a little angry,
but especially when he’s talking to the occupant of the cubicle next to mine.
“It’s unacceptable, and furthermore, it’s unprofessional.”
I give up on getting any actual coding work done and just listen. Okay, I admit it, I wasn’t coding. I was playing solitaire on my computer. When Peter
comes in here and tells me I’m being unacceptable, it’s because I’m playing solitaire. In Peter’s eyes, we’re a bunch of unacceptable young
whippersnappers. If only I had an office—then I could play FreeCell and go on Facebook until I’m blue in the face. Except I must have done something
wrong in a previous life, because it doesn’t seem like I’m getting out of this cube any time in the near future. I’ll probably die here. Slowly and painfully.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself, Anna?” Peter says.
The voice of the girl who has had the cubicle next to mine for the last three years floats over the thin divider between us: “This wouldn’t be a problem
if I had an office.”
I grin to myself. Yeah, Anna. You gun for that office, girlie. See what good it does you.
Peter is quiet for a minute. Holy crap, he’s not actually considering this, is he? “So if you had an office, you’d stop? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No,” Anna says slowly. “I’m saying that if I had an office, nobody would see. So it wouldn’t be a problem.”
Okay, that was hilarious. I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from busting out laughing. It doesn’t entirely work. A snort escapes but I
don’t think Peter hears it. He’s got his hands full anyway.
In the time Anna Flint has worked here, which is about a year longer than I have, she’s done more “unacceptable” things than any of us. Only she
doesn’t do those things to piss off Peter or out of mind-blowing boredom, like the rest of us. She does it because she’s out of her mind. She’s completely
batshit crazy. Really.
For example, right now Peter is yelling at her because of her can collection.
I get why people collect things. I used to have a baseball card collection when I was a kid, and I used to be really into trading cards and organizing the
cards I already had. I haven’t collected anything in years, but I get it. It’s not weird to collect something.
But Anna collects cans. Like tin cans of food. From the grocery store.
Tell me that’s not nuts.
It started about maybe a year ago. I noticed she had a couple of cans of food on the floor of her office. Over the last year, it’s turned into a tower. The
girl has a tower of cans in her cubicle. And they’re not exciting cans, although I’m not sure what an exciting can would be exactly. But these are, I swear to
God, cans of green beans or creamed corn. Her cubicle looks like aisle three of the grocery store. And because of that, people have been complaining.
One person in particular.
“Look, Anna,” Peter says to her, dropping his usually booming voice a few notches. “I mean, doesn’t it bother you that everyone is making fun of
these cans? You know what people call you, don’t you?”
I wince. Last year, my buddy Calvin was talking to a bunch of other people around the office at the local bar after work, and they got to joking about
the cans. “Well, what do you expect from Crazy Anna?” he said. Crazy Anna. It wasn’t even particularly catchy or creative, but it stuck. Nobody says
Anna’s name anymore without modifying it with “Crazy.”
Okay, even I’ve called her Crazy Anna. But never within earshot.
“Yes,” Anna says softly. “I know.”
Shit.
“Do you like that?” Peter presses her. “Do you want everyone calling you nuts?”
What the hell is wrong with Peter? How could he talk to her that way? Doesn’t he realize what an asshole he’s being?
I can’t sit here and listen to this.
I stand up, pushing back my rolly chair to come face to face with Peter, who slumps the way I’m sure I will after another twenty years of working on
computers. In the time I’ve worked here, Peter has become increasingly bald. I swear, if I ever get bald enough that I feel like I’ve got to do a combover,
I’m shaving my head. No hesitation. I’m not that attached to my hair anyway.
“Hey, Peter!” I say loudly as I fling an arm over the edge of my cubicle.
Peter blinks a few times. He probably didn’t realize or care that I could hear every word of what he was saying to Anna. We all can. That’s the thing
with cubicles—not a whole lot of privacy.
“Hello, Matt,” he says slowly. “What’s wrong?”
I jerk a thumb in the direction of my monitor. “This code I’ve been working on won’t compile. I’ve tried everything.”
Peter scratches his balding skull, which makes his combover stand up straight. Never. I will never have a combover. “What language you using?”
“Perl.” (Peter’s favorite.)
He nods. “All right. Send it to me. I’ll take a look.”
Peter heads back to his office without saying anything more to Anna. Lucky thing he doesn’t look in my cubicle because I’ve still got Spider Solitaire
on the screen. In the time I’ve worked here, I must have played ten billion games of solitaire. No exaggeration. Peter keeps having it deleted from my
computer and I keep figuring out a way to circumvent the restrictions and download it again. I could just play it on my phone but it’s more fun to play it on
the computer. It’s sad that I devote more brain power to figuring out ways to goof off than to my actual job.
Anna is still sitting in her cubicle. She’s staring at me with those big blue eyes of hers. “Thank you,” she says.
“Hey, no problem.” I shrug and smile. “We code monkeys gotta watch out for each other, right?”
Except I probably wouldn’t watch out for Anna so much if she weren’t so cute. Not that there aren’t lots of cute girls out there, but there’s something
about Anna. I don’t know what it is exactly. Something about that straight white-blond hair that she always keeps precisely tucked behind her ears,
something about those blouses she always keeps buttoned up to her white throat—she’s got the sexy librarian thing going big time. In the time I’ve shared
a cubicle wall with her, I’ve developed what’s probably a really unhealthy crush on her. Unhealthy because, like I said, Anna is batshit crazy. But she still
does it for me. If that makes any sense.
Nothing will ever happen between Anna and me. Never. Ever. For so many reasons. But I still fantasize.
Anna taps her foot against the floor. She’s always tapping over there. Tapping against the floor, tapping on the walls of her cubicle, tapping on her
desk—it’s like a goddamn tap dancing competition in there. One of these days, I’m going to say to her, Anna, what is the deal with all the tapping? Except
I probably don’t want to know.
“Let me give you this,” Anna says.
She starts rifling through the top drawer of her desk. I already know where this is going. Anna can be very predictable sometimes. And sure enough,
after a minute, she pulls out… a bottle of hand sanitizer.
There’s a reason they call her Crazy Anna.
“Um, actually,” I say. “I already… I mean, thank you but… I still have the hand sanitizer you gave me a few weeks ago.”
 Anna saw me eating a turkey sandwich at my desk and completely flipped her shit. She gifted me the hand sanitizer and would not take her eyes off
me till I used it. She’s done this probably a dozen times in the last year.
“Oh,” she says. She’s still holding out the bottle to me.
So I take it. Whatever. You can’t have too much hand sanitizer, I guess.
Chapter 3: Anna
On the rare occasion that I must make photocopies, I am extremely careful. I recognize that the machine is used by multiple persons every day, so I try to
touch it as little as possible and sanitize my hands immediately after.
Today I approach the copy machine with four pages that require duplication. The machine is about five feet away from the office water cooler, where I
often see my coworkers congregating during their breaks to gossip and drink water. I have very little interest in gossip, and even less interest in drinking
water from a water cooler.
You probably are not aware that one in four water coolers are contaminated with bacteria that is likely to cause illness. One tenth of samples obtained
from coolers contained staphylococcus aureus bacteria, a dangerous source of illness. And up to one quarter contained coliform bacteria, which is often
found in fecal matter. Water coolers should be cleaned and sterilized at least once per year, but I suspect that this water cooler has not been cleaned once in
the entire time I’ve worked here. It is quite literally a cesspool of bacteria.
There are three female receptionists chatting at the water cooler when I approach the copy machine. They glance at me briefly, but then carry on
talking as if I don’t exist. I avoid looking at them, determined to make my copies as quickly as possible. Hopefully, the machine won’t jam.
“So which one would you rather have sex with?” the tallest and most buxom of the receptionists asks the other two. I believe her name is Lindsay, but
I have yet to have a conversation with her. Our exchanges have been limited to necessary and vital information.
The redheaded receptionist, I believe named Heidi, considers this question briefly. “We’re just talking about sex?”
Lindsay nods. I feed the pages into the copy machine and stare down at the machine, trying not to listen.
“If it’s just sex, I’d say Calvin,” Heidi says.
“I’d say Matt,” says the other secretary, the least objectively attractive of the three with buck teeth but an otherwise pretty face. Her name, I believe, is
Elizabeth. “Definitely Matt.”
The pages feed into the machine without any issues. However, I don’t pull the fresh copies out immediately. I’m not sure why, but something is
compelling me to keep listening, even though I abhor gossip as a rule.
“Calvin looks like he has more skills,” Heidi argues.
Lindsay shakes her head. “I gotta agree with Liz. Calvin would probably be all about himself, don’t you think so?”
“Maybe,” Heidi admits.
“And Matt’s cuter,” Elizabeth adds. “Have you guys seen him when he’s been working out in the morning and he comes in wearing a T-shirt? He’s got
some serious muscles going on. He’s so… hot.”
Lindsay lets out a laugh. “Liz, you need to just ask him out already. Seriously.”
My stomach clenches into a tight little ball. I yank the copies out of the machine and head back to my cubicle. I try not to think about the tone of
Elizabeth’s voice when she talked about Matt. I wonder if she will listen to her friends and ask him out on a date. I’m not entirely sure why the idea of this
bothers me so intensely.
When I’m back at my desk, I dive into my work for the day. I love my work. I know there are a lot of people who are employed here who find it
incredibly dull—for example, I see Matt playing games of solitaire on his computer rather than doing his coding work. But I love what I do. I love the
organization of a piece of well-written code. Recursive algorithms give me a special jolt of pleasure when I write them. There are times when I look at an
algorithm I’ve written, and take several minutes to admire it.
I even love the office itself, possibly because it’s on the eleventh floor of the building. I love the number eleven. It’s my favorite number because it’s
the smallest palindrome.
Palindromes are my favorite thing in the whole world. A palindrome is a word or number that is the same backwards as forwards. My name is a
palindrome. A-N-N-A. I love the symmetry of palindromes. Whenever I’m feeling anxious, I think of palindromes and I feel better.
When I was in school, my favorite subject was mathematics. There’s something about numbers that’s very comforting to me, especially numbers that
have symmetry. A perfect square is a number that is a number times itself. For example, nine is a perfect square because it is three times three.
The number eleven is very comforting to me because of its symmetry. Of course, my absolute favorite number is 121, because not only is it a
palindrome in its own right, it is also the perfect square of another palindrome (11). I save the number 121 for special occasions.
I could spend hours talking about palindromes, perfect squares, perfect numbers, and other things in math that give me pleasure. But my mother has
brought to my attention the fact that people don’t enjoy it when I talk too much about palindromes, so I try not to. She says people look at me funny. Is it
really so odd though? What relaxes most people? A massage? A hot shower? A hit of liquor? So they have their whiskey and I have my palindromes. At
least the thing that relaxes me won’t get me in a car accident or cause liver damage.
Unfortunately, being on the eleventh floor at work isn’t all good. Walking up and down eleven flights of stairs is not the easiest thing in the world.
Yes, it keeps me fit, but it’s exhausting. And in the last year, my knees have started bothering me. Going up the stairs isn’t too bad, but going down is like
razor blades shooting through my kneecaps, especially at the end of the workday
I haven’t discovered an acceptable alternative, however. What can I do? Take the elevator? All those people crammed into that tiny little space,
breathing the same air? That’s not a possibility.
Still, I need to do something about my knees. Maybe a knee brace. That would fix my problem.
Chapter 4: Matt
“You can’t do this,” I say to Calvin, as I wipe the residuals of my Sam Adams off my lips. “It’s mean.”
We’re sitting in the bar just down the street from the office where we work, because it’s Friday and that’s what we do every single Friday. The bar is
dark and smoky and the girls who come here are ridiculously hot. If not for Calvin, I’d never have the nerve to come to a bar like this and talk to women.
Hell, I’d never talked to women in a bar ever before he came along. But now, not only do I do it several nights a week, I’m actually getting damn good at it.
“Why not?” Calvin whines. “Come on, Matt. You’re such a fucking wuss. It’s funny. Even she’ll think it’s funny.”
Calvin’s brilliant idea:
Cal printed out this photo of a bag lady pushing a shopping cart, which is loaded with empty cans that the woman is presumably turning in for
recycling. His great idea is to stick the photo on the wall of Anna’s cubicle for everyone to see. You know, because of the can thing.
“It’s mean,” I repeat. “I’m telling you, don’t do it.”
“I’m just trying to raise morale at the office,” Calvin says. “Anna probably won’t even get it. I mean, this is Crazy Anna we’re talking about. She’s got
some weird Asperger’s shit or something.”
Calvin thinks Anna’s got Asperger’s or maybe she’s outright autistic. I don’t know. I have to admit, sometimes you ask Anna a question and she’ll
give you this bizarre response that makes you wonder if she even understands English. And that weird thing she’s got with the hand sanitizer… I just can’t
figure it out. But let me tell you, she’s got moments when she can be really sweet.
I haven’t told Cal about my thing for Anna. He wouldn’t get it. And like I said, nothing will ever happen between me and her. That would probably
need to involve more hand sanitizer than exists in the known world.
“Anna’s not an idiot,” I say. “She’s going to realize you’re making fun of her. Really, Cal. Don’t do it.”
Calvin rolls his eyes. “You’re no fun anymore, Matt. At least you’re playing b-ball with us Sunday, right?”
I flinch and instinctively rub my ankle. “Uh, no. My Achilles is still acting up.”
“Still?” Calvin snorts. “Dude, it’s been fucking forever. Have you gone to the doctor?”
“I think it’s getting better,” I say.
Actually, that’s a lie. My right ankle issues are not getting better. If anything, it’s gotten worse. Much worse. I don’t know what the hell is going on
with my stupid ankle, but I hate doctors, so I keep ACE wrapping it and hoping the problem will go away on its own.
It all started maybe… shit, I don’t know. Three or four months ago? I was at the gym on the treadmill and my ankle gave out from under me. I went
flying off the treadmill and landed on my ass. I hadn’t twisted it or anything, and it didn’t really hurt. It just felt weak and I don’t know why.
I iced it that night and kept it elevated, but the next day, it still didn’t feel right. Even when I walk now, sometimes it feels like it might collapse under
me. I keep wrapping it every day, and I even bought myself an ankle brace at the drug store. I’m thinking I tore my Achilles. How long does an injury like
that take to heal anyway?
Except the really scary part is that sometimes I feel like my left ankle isn’t all that stable either. Could I have Achilles tears on both sides?
Maybe I really do need to suck it up and see a doctor. In any case, I wouldn’t trust myself to play basketball right now.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine in a month,” I assure Calvin.
“All right,” he grumbles.
I’m sure it will be better soon. After all, I’m twenty-six years old and completely healthy. I trust my body to heal itself.
“Okay,” Calvin says, already bored of the discussion, “now let’s focus on the prey.”
When we go to the bar to hit on girls, Calvin calls it “hunting,” and in case you hadn’t figured it out, the “prey” refers to the fairer sex. We’re awful—I
know. When I first met Cal and heard him talking about women that way, I thought he was a misogynistic asshole, but then a few months later, he had me
doing the same thing.
But it’s all just a joke. Christ, it’s not like we’d actually hurt a woman. We love women. At least, I do. I’m not so sure about Calvin sometimes.
You wouldn’t believe a couple of geeky coders would be so successful getting girls. I was always fair at getting girls, as long as I didn’t aim too high,
but I wasn’t great at it. I’m just average in looks and not particularly charismatic or anything like that. When I was in school, I was always the kid who was
just a little too good with computers and liked Lord of the Rings just a little too much. The girls who liked me were also the ones who liked things like…
math. And science. And hobbits.
And that wasn’t a bad thing. I always liked smart girls. They got me and I got them. My girlfriend in college was as big a dork as I was, and even
though it didn’t work out with Erica, I know that’s the type of girl I’d want to be my next girlfriend… if Calvin hadn’t convinced me that it’s not worth it to
have a girlfriend at our age.
Calvin says that it’s cool that I’m a nerd because dorks are cool now. He might be a coder, but he’s not a geek. Calvin is the shit, and it doesn’t matter
what he does, because he’s got looks and charm, and everything that makes girls eat out of the palm of his hand. He takes hitting on women to the next
level. I feel like I should take notes when I watch him. He doesn’t even hide the fact that he’s a complete dick. But it works for him. The girls eat up his
dickery.
“I see two nines over there.” Calvin nods his head at the left corner of the bar.
I glance over at the two girls sipping on frothy drinks. Calvin has gotten into the habit of referring to girls by their attractiveness on a scale of one to
ten. He’s got one rule—nothing below an eight. He won’t even let me go home with anyone below an eight. Whereas before I started cruising for chicks
with Cal, I probably never went home with anyone higher than an eight in my entire life. These girls would have been way out of my league before, but
lately, I’m getting more confident. Calvin and I are really successful.
“Can I have the blonde?” I ask him.
Calvin snorts. “No. I already called her.”
“You called her? When the fuck did that happen?”
“I have eternal dibs on the blondes.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
Calvin grins at me. “I’m doing you a favor, Matt. You wouldn’t even know what to do with that one.”
Ten minutes later, the two nines have joined our table. I let Calvin take the lead, because he’s so much better at it than I am. Even though Cal
apparently has dibs on the blonde, I can’t keep my eyes off her. She’s got this sexy white-blond hair that reminds me of Anna. Of course, if I hooked up
with her, I’d probably end up thinking of Anna the whole time, and that wouldn’t be fair to… well, I forgot her name. Call her Anna Prime.
“So you guys are computer programmers?” Anna Prime asks us.
“Yep.” Calvin jerks his thumb in my direction. “This guy over here—he’s a freaking genius. I swear, he could have made Facebook.”
The brunette, whose name I also forgot (yeah, I’m drunk), says, “Could you have made Facebook, Matt?”
I shrug. “I mean, if you’re asking if I could have coded Facebook? Yeah, sure. That part isn’t hard. Anyone could have done that. The whole thing is
the marketing, and obviously, the idea behind it.”
“See?” Calvin says triumphantly as he throws an arm around Anna Prime’s shoulder. “He could have made Facebook.”
Yeah, yeah. Calvin isn’t the brightest coder we’ve got, and that’s being nice. He stinks, actually. He sends half his code to me to fix for him just so he
keeps his job. I figure it’s the least I can do for my buddy. Even though it cuts into my solitaire time.
I look down at the brunette’s beer and see that it’s running low. “Let me buy you another one of those,” I offer.
She grins at me. “You trying to get me drunk so you can take me home?”
“No way.” I wink at her. “You don’t need to be drunk for that. I’m taking you home either way.”
A couple of years ago, I never would have had the nerve to say something like that to a girl. I’d be worried I’d get slapped. But the brunette doesn’t
slap me. She moves closer to me, so that her face is nearly touching mine. I can smell the Sam Adams on her breath.
“Confident, aren’t you?” she murmurs.
I nod. “Sure am. Didn’t you hear? I almost made Facebook.”
Within the next twenty minutes, I’ve got my arm around the brunette’s slim shoulders, and not long after that, we’re making out. I still have no clue
what her name is, but I’m confident that I can fake my way through this. After all, we’re just hooking up, not getting married. I don’t need to know her
name.
Calvin told me when we met that he was going to turn me into a player, and I swear, I think he’s done it.
Chapter 5: Anna
I eat lunch every day at precisely 10:45 a.m. That’s very early for lunch, and some days I’m barely hungry. But it’s the only time that I can guarantee that
I’ll be alone.
I bring my Lysol can to the break room and spray everything down before I do anything else. The other people I work with are incredibly fortunate that
I do this. I know a janitor comes every evening, but they must only clean the floor. The table in the break room is always absolutely disgusting—it’s sticky
and covered in coffee cup rings by the time I get there. And you should see the microwave—there are black stains coating the walls of it and the revolving
tray inside is brown where it should be clear. I don’t even want to think about it. I would never touch that thing.
And don’t get me started on the refrigerator. There’s mold growing in the fridge. Honest to goodness mold. I see it growing at the junction between the
shelves and the walls—brown, slightly fuzzy streaks. It’s horrible. I would never touch that refrigerator, much less keep my lunch inside. I keep my food
with me at all times in a lunch bag with an ice pack to keep it cold.
Every day, I eat a turkey sandwich on whole grain wheat bread with one slice of Muenster cheese and a slice of tomato. I have been eating this exact
same lunch for the entire time I’ve worked here. It contains four of the five basic food groups: a grain, dairy, meat, and a fruit. (A tomato is obviously a
fruit. I have had several frustrating conversations with individuals who refused to acknowledge this.)
After I clean the table, I lay down 11 napkins. I spend exactly 11 minutes eating my lunch from the time I sit down at the table. If for some reason, I
can’t finish my sandwich in 11 minutes, then I have to stay for another 11 minutes, for a total of 22 minutes. That doesn’t happen very often, but sometimes
it happens. For example, on one occasion, the janitor came into the break room to empty the trash bag while I was eating, so after he left, I had to sterilize
the entire room again, obviously.
Today I have no interruptions during my lunch. All in all, it is a very acceptable and pleasing experience. Except when I get back to my cubicle, I
discover someone has been busy in my absence.
There’s a picture. Taped to the outside of my cubicle. As I get closer, I see that it’s a black and white printed photograph of a homeless woman. She’s
pushing a shopping cart filled to the brim with cans.
Ha ha.
I know that it must be Calvin Fitzgerald who did this. This reeks of his sense of humor.
For a minute, I stand there, staring at the photo. I hear snickers coming from all around me. Everyone has been waiting for me to return from my lunch
and see this photo. I have a dizzying flashback to high school—that’s when people first started making fun of me and calling me things like “crazy.”
I was never a social butterfly, even in elementary school, but it seemed to get worse as I got older. During my freshman year of high school, I hardly
made any friends and generally felt uncomfortable being too physically close to my classmates. During lunch, I would take my tray to the most isolated
table in the far corner of the cafeteria and eat alone.
But it was sophomore year when I started having real issues.
It started when I was getting lunch in the cafeteria. The lunch lady was pulling a pair of rubber gloves out of a box to serve the food, which I suppose
was better than serving food with her bare hands, but then she reached out and scratched her nose. Now what is the point of putting on clean gloves if
you’re then going to touch your dirty nose? I pointed this out to the lunch lady, who gave me a look that I would not describe as patient or understanding.
“You want a burger or not, girlie?” she said to me.
I thought for a minute. “I do not.”
The lunch lady rolled her eyes and a few kids in line giggled, but it wasn’t that big a deal. I ended up purchasing a bag of chips and decided to bring
my own lunch from then on. I absolutely would not risk my food being contaminated. I was willing to purchase a carton of milk, although I brought my
own straw. I saw several kids chugging straight from the milk cartons and it was hard to watch.
It was roughly midway through the year when I walked into my math class and was about to sit down in my seat when it occurred to me that only
minutes earlier, another student had been sitting on that very seat. They had been getting all their germs and sweat and probably fecal matter (I’m assuming
the handwashing rate is even lower from high school kids than in the general population) all over the chair. And now I had to sit in it.
The thought of it made a cold sweat break out all over my body. I couldn’t imagine sitting there. I wouldn’t.
“Miss Flint!” my teacher’s voice called from across the classroom. My geometry teacher was Mr. Owens, probably the worst teacher this could have
happened with. He was quite old and had very limited tolerance for shenanigans. “Would you be so kind as to take a seat?”
I looked around at my classmates, all of whom were sitting quietly. Well, not entirely quietly. Several of them were staring at me and giggling.
“I can’t sit here,” I murmured.
Mr. Owens folded his hairy arms across his chest. “And why is that?”
“It’s dirty.”
Mr. Owens leaned over to look at the seat in question. “It doesn’t look dirty to me.”
I carefully explained to him that not all dirt was the sort that you could see with the naked eye. That there are microscopic germs that are far more
harmful than anything that is readily visible. And that I simply could not put myself at risk.
When I was done speaking, Mr. Owens let out a sigh. “Just sit down, Anna.”
I would not.
A few things happened after that. First, I was sent to the principal’s office, the beginning of many journeys there over the next several years that
eventually culminated in my being sent to see a completely useless therapist. Second, I started bringing a large coat with me to all my classes so that I
could lay it down on the chairs before I took a seat—this was increasingly conspicuous as we got closer to the summer months, but I kept bringing the coat
and I religiously washed it every night.
Third, other kids started making fun of me.
Kids would push a chair in my direction and say, “Sit down, Anna!” The taunts would make cold sweat break out on the back of my neck. I would try
to ignore them the best I could because I knew they were only trying to get a rise out of me, and the teasing would die down until the next incident. Except
there was always a next incident.
During my junior year, I begged my mother to take me out of school. I would focus better with homeschooling. But she insisted this was the best thing
for me. Exposure therapy or something like that.
It didn’t help. I just kept telling myself that someday I would no longer be around children and the torment would end.
I’m now a woman in my late twenties and I’m still being taunted by my coworkers. How could these people in their twenties and thirties have the same
maturity as high school students? In fact, I suspect some of the comments Calvin Fitzgerald has made about me are far worse than anything I heard in
school.
I tap my finger against my palm eleven times, but it doesn’t help. I don’t feel any better. Not even a tiny bit.
I run to the bathroom and I wash my hands for the requisite 121 seconds. It makes me feel very slightly better. But when I go back to my cubicle and
see the picture still there, I realize that I don’t feel better at all.
I wonder if Matt knew about this. He isn’t cruel the way Calvin is. I knew from the moment I first met him that he has a kind heart. I could see it in his
brown eyes—sometimes you just look into a person’s eyes and you know. Yet he’s been spending so much time with Calvin, and I even heard Calvin refer
to Matt as his “best buddy.” I know what the two of them do—that they go out and try to hit on the most attractive women they can find. That it’s some sort
of conquest to them.
Maybe Matt isn’t as good a person as I thought he was. Or maybe he’s changed.
I stare at the photograph, uncertain what my next move should be. Do I laugh and play it off like a prank? Do I complain to Peter? No, I can’t
complain. The cans have already been an issue—no need to draw more attention to them.
Maybe I should just pretend I haven’t even seen it. Or that I simply don’t care. I don’t want them to think they’re getting to me.
So I just sit down in my cubicle and get back to work. I try to pretend like the picture doesn’t bother me, even as I feel the tears pricking my eyes.
Chapter 6: Matt
“Hey, Matt.”
I’m coming back from a lunchtime run to the post office when Liz, one of our receptionists, gives me a big wave and smile. I slow down by her desk,
not really feeling like some mindless bullshit chitchat, but also not wanting to get back to work.
“Hey,” I say.
Liz flashes me a wide grin. Calvin has commented on Liz’s buck teeth before and once or twice has made a neighing sound when her name came up.
Back before I met Calvin, I would have thought Liz was really hot with her big tits and long auburn hair—I probably would have started stammering every
time I tried to talk to her. But now it doesn’t faze me in the slightest.
“We missed you at lunch today, Matt,” Liz says as she slugs me playfully in the arm.
I force a smile. “Did I miss anything interesting?”
“Calvin was just being an idiot.” Liz rolls her eyes, even though I know she’s crazy about Calvin. He claims she’s got a crush on me, but I think it’s
safe to say that every woman in the office prefers him to me. “He did something pretty funny though.”
I raise my eyebrows. “What’s that?”
Liz giggles. “He had this photo of a bag lady... you know, the kind that pushes around a shopping cart filled with lots of cans? And he pasted it on
Anna Flint’s cubicle.” She adds, unnecessarily, “You know, because of all the cans she’s got in there.”
“Yeah, I get it,” I say through my teeth.
That asshole.
“What is with her anyway?” Liz shakes her head. “She is so weird.”
I crane my neck to see Anna’s cubicle. Is the photo still there? It’s hard to see from here. “Did she see it yet?”
“I don’t know.” Liz shrugs. “I guess so. I mean, she’s in there, so she must have, right? Anyway, she seriously needs to get rid of all those cans. It’s
really unprofessional.”
Christ, I can’t believe she saw that photo.
“Listen, Matt,” Liz says, her voice suddenly getting quiet, “So I was just thinking… um, I don’t know if you’re free this Friday, but—”
“I have to get back to work,” I say to Liz, without giving her a chance to spit out the rest of whatever she has to say. I push past her, making a beeline
for Anna’s cubicle. I’m so pissed off at Calvin right now. I can’t believe he taped that picture up after I told him a hundred times that he shouldn’t do it.
Actually, I can believe it. He never listens to me.
Well, fuck him. If he needs someone to help him with his work from now on, he can find some other loser to do it. And he can find some other asshole
to go “hunting” with him. I can’t be friends with someone who would treat another person this way.
When I get to Anna’s cubicle, she’s working quietly inside like she always does, her blond hair tucked neatly behind her ears. She doesn’t notice that
I’m standing there, but that’s no surprise. When Anna is coding, she is in the zone. I love that about her.
The picture is still up. I have no idea if she saw it or not. I’m assuming she didn’t. If she had seen it, she would have taken it down, right? She
wouldn’t have just left the photo up there and kept working? Would she?
Maybe she would have though. Christ, who knows what’s going on in that head? Maybe Calvin was right—maybe she didn’t get it at all.
All right, either way, it seems like no harm was done. Anna is okay. She either didn’t see the photo or she didn’t get it. So I yank it down and crumple
it into a ball, intending to get rid of it in my own cubicle. I’m definitely going to give Calvin hell for doing this to her, but I don’t need to cut him out
completely. After all, he’s my best buddy here.
Anna looks up at me as I shove the paper into my pocket. I smile innocently. She looks at me curiously for a moment, then returns her gaze to her
computer screen without smiling back.
Chapter 7: Anna
I go grocery shopping once every other week. It is the longest amount of time I can manage between trips, because I hate shopping more than anything
else. Just the idea of being in a large grocery store with so many other people around is upsetting to me, but it’s a necessity. I know there are ways to get
groceries delivered, but I simply don’t trust anyone else to pick out the groceries properly.
Sometimes it takes me more than one try before I’m able to complete my shopping. There’s a nonzero chance that something will upset me so badly
during the shopping trip that I will be forced to evacuate the store immediately.
After seeing the photo that Calvin Fitzgerald left on my cubicle wall, the last thing I want to do is endure a shopping trip, but I’m running very low
on… well, everything. During my last attempt at shopping, the handlebar of the shopping cart touched my shirt, which meant that I had to rush home and
change prior to actually making any purchases.
I need a lot of items today although they are mostly from the center of the store. I don’t buy items from the bakery because I noticed that the pans they
use to cook baked goods in appeared rusty. I purchase only pre-packaged deli meats for the same reason I would not allow the lunch lady to serve me when
I was in high school. I only buy fresh fruits or vegetables that are wrapped, because… my God, have you seen the way people must touch every single fruit
before choosing one? They may as well just bathe in a big dirty pool of apples and kiwi.
My first stop is to the frozen foods aisle. I do most of my shopping in this aisle because I feel that there’s the least possibility of bacteria growth.
Choosing the right bag of vegetables, however, is something of a challenge. I would never choose the bag right in front. You have no idea how many
people have been pawing at that bag—or perhaps someone has even put the bag in their cart then removed it! The other thing I’m careful about is noticing
whether there is air in the bag. If there is no extra air in the bag, then there’s a chance the bag has been punctured and the contents compromised.
Unfortunately, making absolutely certain that the groceries I’m buying are not contaminated makes the process take quite a long time. Especially since
I haven’t bought groceries in several weeks. By the time I’ve filled the cart to my satisfaction and get in line, I’ve been at the store for over an hour.
As I wait patiently for my turn, I notice a familiar face coming out of the cereal aisle. It’s Matt. Here. At the grocery store.
I feel an odd flash of pleasure at the sight of him. He’s still wearing his dress shirt and slacks from work, but his blue tie is loosened around his neck
and his shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows so that I can see the dark hairs on his forearms. Before I can think to hide, he looks up and sees me. His
brown eyes seem to light up.
“Anna!” he calls out.
Matt took the picture down from the wall of my cubicle, which makes me think he didn’t have anything to do with it going up there. I tried to pretend
that I hadn’t seen it, because I didn’t want him to realize how much it had upset me.
“Hello,” I say, raising my hand in a greeting.
Matt comes over with his cart and gets in line behind me, although his cart has barely anything in it. He could have easily used the twelve items or less
line.
“Is there some big storm I don’t know about?” Matt asks me, eying my own cart that’s filled to the brim, mostly with frozen and canned goods.
“I haven’t been shopping in a while,” I admit.
“Oh yeah?” He raises his eyebrows at me. “You don’t seem like the kind of person who would procrastinate on shopping. You seem… very
organized.”
I study his face. “Is that a compliment?”
Matt grins at me. “I meant it as a compliment.”
“Then I’ll take it as one.” I return his smile. “You seem organized as well.”
He shrugs. “I guess. I could be better at not procrastinating.”
“How so?” I’m not good at making small talk with people, but somehow with Matt, this isn’t small talk. I’m genuinely interested in his answer to this
question. For a moment, I think about how nice it would be if I were actually friends with Matt. Not just friendly, but friends.
“Um…” He thinks for a minute. “Like my laundry. I always wait to do it until I’m basically down to my last clean pair of underwear.” His cheeks
grow slightly pink. “Whoa. Too much info, huh?”
“I do laundry every night,” I tell him.
“Every night?” Matt raises his eyebrows, and now I think it’s me who gave too much information. But I don’t understand the concept of allowing a big
pile of dirty clothes to sit in my home. When a piece of clothing becomes contaminated, it must be washed immediately.
“Well, not every night,” I lie.
I’m next in line, so I am rescued from saying anything else stupid in front of Matt. I don’t understand why I’m so concerned with impressing him—I
rarely feel that way. I’ve already loaded my groceries onto the conveyor belt and the cashier is scanning them one by one. It really upsets me that cashiers
don’t have to wear gloves, but it’s just something I have to deal with. Everything I’ve bought is packaged anyway.
As the cashier is scanning the last stack of my cans, she sniffles loudly. Then, to my absolute horror, she sneezes. And covers her mouth with her hand.
Everyone knows that you’re supposed to sneeze into your elbow if a tissue is unavailable. Even that is distasteful to me, but at least it’s more sanitary
than sneezing in your hand. I watch as she goes right back to scanning my groceries with the hand she just sneezed in.
A sweat breaks out in the back of my neck. I can’t take these groceries now. They’re contaminated. Everything is contaminated! I just spent over an
hour shopping and now they’ve loaded my shopping cart with bags of groceries that I don’t even want to touch. Yes, she only sneezed at the end of
scanning the items, but surely she’s been sneezing into her hand all day if she did it that one time.
I look over at Matt, who doesn’t even seem to have noticed that anything is amiss. How could he not notice? Sneezing into your hand should be a fire-
able offense for a cashier.
“Cash or credit?” the cashier asks me.
I stare at her. My hands are shaking too badly to get my wallet out of my purse, even if I wanted these contaminated groceries. I feel dizzy, like my
legs might give out from under me.
“I… I’m sorry,” I stammer.
And then I run out of the grocery store.
It’s not the first time I’ve done something like that. It’s actually happened on several occasions, which is why I alternate which store I go to. I know
that I’m right about the cashier, but I’m sure they wouldn’t see it that way. I’d just look like a crazy lady who left all her groceries without paying. Crazy
Anna.
I make it to my car in the parking garage. I get inside the vehicle, but I have to roll down the window to get some air. My car is a safe place for me.
Nobody has been in my car but me. I’m safe here. I’m okay.
I’m okay.
After a few minutes, I feel like I can breathe again. My hands have stopped shaking and that dizzy sensation has gone away. I don’t feel like I can go
shopping again in the near future, but at least I feel capable of driving home.
God, what must Matt think of me for running out like that? He already thinks of me as Crazy Anna, I’m sure. I hope he doesn’t tell Calvin about this.
“Anna!”
 Through the open window, I hear the familiar voice yelling my name. I open my car door and lean outside. And that’s when I see him: Matt. Pushing
the same grocery cart I had abandoned a few minutes ago. Filled to the brim with my groceries. I can see my bag of frozen strawberries dripping with
condensation, topping off one of the bags.
I climb out of the car, my heart pounding. “Matt? What…?”
He slows to a halt in front of my car. “You left all your groceries, so…” He scratches at the back of his neck. “I brought them out to you.”
“But…” I look down at all the groceries then back up at Matt. “I didn’t even pay for them.”
He smiles sheepishly. “I paid for them.”
Oh my God. “How much was it? I’ll give you the money.”
Matt waves his hand. “Don’t worry about it. It wasn’t that much.”
I grab my purse out of the car and rifle around for my wallet. “Please. You shouldn’t have to pay for my groceries.”
“Hey.” He makes like he’s going to grab my arm to stop me and I flinch in anticipation, but then he thinks better of it and pulls away. “Listen, I said it
wasn’t much. Would you let me do a good deed for a damsel in distress? Please?”
I frown at him. Nobody has ever referred to me as a “damsel in distress” before. But it’s a nicer way to say it than the reality.
“Can you pop the trunk?” he asks me.
I oblige, and he loads the heavy bags of groceries into my trunk. He’s touching everything, but somehow I don’t mind. Matt doesn’t seem
contaminated to me. I don’t feel bothered that he’s touching my groceries. In fact, it almost negates the touch of that awful sneezing cashier.
“Thank you,” I murmur as he loads the last bag into my trunk.
Matt nods and grins at me. “My pleasure.”
We stand there for at least sixty seconds, staring at one another. He looks like he wants to say something to me, but whatever it is, he doesn’t say it.
Then we go our separate ways.
Chapter 8: Matt
Dr. Dunne has this look on his face that’s the last thing you want to see on the face of a doctor that you’re seeing.
Really, I don’t even know what I’m doing here. It all happened really fast. I finally went to see my primary care doctor about my stupid ankle(s), and
he put in a referral to see an orthopedic surgeon. I lucked out and they had a cancellation the next week, so I got right in.
Except it turns out Dr. Dunne isn’t an orthopedic surgeon. He’s a neurologist. I’m not sure how I missed that little detail. I practically fainted when I
showed up at his practice and saw the words “Neurology Associates” printed on the door. Why the hell would they send me to a neurologist for a torn
Achilles? This has got to be some kind of mistake.
My bare legs are dangling off the table and my thighs are just barely covered by this stupid hospital gown. Why the hell did I need to put on a hospital
gown for an ankle injury? I tried to explain this to the nurse, but she just told me to put the damn thing on.
“Push against my fingers, Mr. Harper,” Dr. Dunne instructs me.
He’s got his fingers positioned above the toes of my right foot. I’m supposed to lift my toes to resist him, but I can’t. I want my ankle to move, but it
won’t obey me. My foot just dangles there.
“Push against my fingers,” he says again.
“I’m trying,” I say through my teeth.
Christ, what the hell is wrong with my ankle? Do I need to have surgery? I probably do. I can’t imagine this healing up on its own at this point.
Then Dr. Dunne starts checking my sensation. He touches me everywhere with the edge of a cue tip, and I have to tell him if it feels normal or not.
Then he touches me with the sharp end of a safety pin. This is all a waste of time. I’m glad my insurance is paying for this instead of me.
The doctor is touching me at the bottom of my foot. “Does this feel sharp to you?”
“No.” I barely even feel it, actually.
It’s strange, actually. I can see him poking me with the safety pin on my right foot, but it doesn’t feel sharp at all. What the hell is going on with my
stupid foot?
When he’s done with the longest ankle exam in the history of the universe, Dr. Dunne folds his arms across his chest and gives me that look again. The
one that scares the shit out of me. “It’s not an Achilles injury, Mr. Harper,” he says.
I shake my head at him. “What else could it be?”
“That’s what I’m wondering,” the doctor says with a thin smile. He can’t even bring himself to give me a real smile. Christ, this is bad. “What’s
concerning to me is that you really can’t move your right ankle at all. You can’t flex it in either direction. And your left ankle is somewhat weak as well.
It’s amazing you haven’t been falling.”
Okay, I lied to him about that. I have been falling. I fell twice in the last week. Usually it’s in a place where there’s carpeting, because that snags my
foot. I end up having to take these giant steps with my right foot where I lift my knee very high to keep my toes from tripping me up. Anyway, they weren’t
bad falls and I didn’t hurt myself.
“Also,” he adds, “you’re missing some sensation in your feet. Both feet. This is all very indicative of a nerve injury.”
“A nerve injury?” That doesn’t sound good. Although it doesn’t sound bad either, necessarily. I’ve played a lot of sports over my life, and I’ve had
plenty of injuries. Usually they heal eventually.
Dr. Dunne nods. “Considering that it’s affecting both sides, my worry is that the injury is at the level of the spinal cord or higher. I’d like to start with
an MRI of your spine and brain.”
“An MRI of my brain?” Is he kidding me? I come here with a messed up ankle and all of a sudden they’re getting a scan of my brain? What kind of
doctor is this guy? I knew I should have followed my instinct and gotten the hell out of here when I realized he wasn’t an orthopedic surgeon.
“Yes,” Dr. Dunne says. “As soon as possible. Depending on what that shows, we may need to do further testing. But in the meantime, I’m going to
send you to a physical therapist.”
“Okay,” I agree.
That I’m on board with. I saw a PT after a bad hamstring injury in high school. It’s all about getting better. And I will get better.
Chapter 9: Anna
Doctors’ offices are my own personal version of hell.
I haven’t been to the doctor since I was forced to get a physical for my current job. So it’s been over six years. I don’t get sick though. Ever. It just
goes to show that a bit of good hygiene really is the best offense against the common cold.
I wouldn’t be here at the doctor right now, except for the fact that when I woke up this morning, my right knee was very swollen. So severely swollen
that I could barely walk until I spent twenty minutes icing it. I took 800 mg of Motrin and called to make an appointment with the person deemed by my
health insurance to be my primary care physician. Dr. Lewis.
The thought of sharing a waiting room with a bunch of sick people is not appealing to me. I’ve heard of practices where the sick and the well have
separate waiting rooms, but Dr. Lewis apparently does not believe in this. So I bring a facemask and gloves.
Everyone in the waiting room is staring at me with my facemask. Even though it’s fairly crowded, everyone takes pains not to sit near me, even though
I’m probably the only person in this room who is not contaminated. I watch as one guy picks up a magazine, coughs all over it, then puts it right back on
the table for the next unsuspecting person to pick up.
Why would they have magazines to share in a place where everyone is sick and contagious? This is why illnesses spread so rapidly on this planet.
A woman in scrubs, presumably a nurse, comes to collect me from the waiting room. She seems thrown off by my mask as well. I don’t, by the way,
remove the mask when I get into the examining room, because God knows who the last person in this room was. They could have had Plague, for all I
know.
The nurse gives me a kind smile as she holds up a sphygmomanometer. “I’m going to take your blood pressure. Okay, Anna?”
I never gave her permission to call me Anna. But fine. I’ll pick my battles.
“No,” I say. “I don’t want that.”
She freezes. “What?”
“I don’t want you to take my blood pressure,” I say. I add, “It’s normal.”
The nurse plants one fist on each hip. “Well, how do you know that if you don’t let me check it?”
“Because my sodium intake is well below the recommended levels,” I explain. “And I eat a well-balanced diet with very little fat.”
The nurse studies me for a moment before recognizing that she isn’t going to win this argument. She sighs and sits down at the computer that’s been
strategically placed in the corner of the examining room. “So you have a cold?”
I shake my head. “No. It’s my knee.”
She frowns. “So why are you wearing a mask?”
“I don’t want to catch anything.”
I can tell the nurse is thrilled to be done with me when she hands over a gown and asks me to put it on. I don’t bother to tell her that she’s out of her
mind if she thinks I’m putting on some dirty gown that thousands of patients have worn before me. I’m wearing a skirt. Dr. Lewis will have no trouble
examining my knee.
Dr. Lewis reminds me a bit of Matt—or at least, how Matt will look in twenty years, since Matt is far younger than this man. He’s effortlessly
attractive, slim, athletic. He has kind brown eyes that are the same color as Matt’s. When he smiles, I feel my guard lowering. Although I’m still not going
to change into a filthy gown.
“So, Ms. Flint, I hear your knee is giving you problems.” He raises his light brown eyebrows at me.
I nod. “My company at work is on the eleventh floor, and I think walking up and down the stairs is irritating it.”
Dr. Lewis’s eyebrows raise another several millimeters. “There’s no elevator?”
“Oh no,” I breathe. “I mean, yes, there’s an elevator. But I couldn’t get into such a small space with other people. I haven’t taken an elevator in years.”
Dr. Lewis looks at me. He frowns, but doesn’t say anything more. I watch as he reaches for a pair of latex blue gloves that he yanks from a box
mounted on the wall. They make a loud snapping noise as he adjusts them on his hands. I cringe as I realize what’s about to happen. He’s going to touch
my knee.
“No, don’t!” I gasp as his hand comes within half a foot of my kneecap.
He startles. “Ms. Flint…”
“No,” I say more firmly this time. “You can look, but don’t touch.”
“I promise I’ll be gentle…”
“No.”
I don’t add that nobody has touched me in five years, and he will not be the first.
I have to hand it to Dr. Lewis. He studies my knee carefully, watches me as I flex and extend my leg, and has me point to where it hurts the most. He
asks me one more time if I’m certain that he isn’t allowed to touch it. I’m certain.
“I don’t think it’s anything serious,” he finally says. “It’s hard to tell what’s going on without actually, you know, touching it, but I wouldn’t worry. I’d
just keep icing it and take Naprosyn twice a day.”
“And if it doesn’t improve?”
He smiles crookedly at me. “Would you consider an MRI?”
An MRI? Doesn’t that involve lying in a tiny tube for a prolonged period of time?
“I would not,” I inform him.
“Didn’t think so.” He gazes at me with those kind brown eyes. “Well, you’re young. I’m sure it will get better. Especially if you cut back on the
stairs.”
Dr. Lewis is quiet for a minute then. I know what he’s thinking about saying. This is the inevitable part of every doctor’s visit. But I hope that he
doesn’t say it.
“Ms. Flint, do you see a psychiatrist?”
Doctors. They are so predictable.
And now you know why I don’t go anymore.
Chapter 10: Matt
I’m doing physical therapy at a Sports Medicine center a short drive from my apartment. Dr. Dunne still hasn’t given me a good idea what he thinks is
wrong with me, but considering it’s my ankles that are bothering me, a sports place seems appropriate. Although when I walk over to the reception desk at
the entrance to the large gym, I can’t help but notice that most people doing therapy are at least a generation older than I am.
My physical therapist is a woman named Kelly, who meets me at the reception area. She’s nearly as tall as I am, and probably twice as strong. Really,
I’d be scared to arm wrestle this woman, because she might actually beat me. And I’m no ninety-eight-pound weakling.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Harper,” she says as she encloses my hand in an impressive grip. “May I call you Matthew? Or Matt?”
“Matt’s fine,” I say.
I follow Kelly across the gym, doing my damnedest not to trip and fall. That wouldn’t look good on my first physical therapy appointment. Luckily,
we don’t have far to go. She leads me to a bench and has me take a seat in front of her.
“So I got the paperwork from Dr. Dunne,” Kelly says. “Sounds like your ankles have been weak, but they don’t know exactly why yet.”
“Right,” I say. “I really thought it was my Achilles tendon though. Honestly, I still do. One of my friends ruptured his, and he said his ankle was weak
from that. But Dr. Dunne says I’m wrong.”
Kelly grins at me. “Hey, it wouldn’t be the first time a doctor’s ever been wrong. Let’s take a look, huh?”
She starts out with an exam. She does a lot of the same strength testing as Dr. Dunne, and even starts measuring how well my ankle moves with one of
those angle-measuring devices that gives me flashbacks to high school geometry class. Just like with Dr. Dunne, my right ankle doesn’t move much.
As a finale, Kelly has me walk across the entire gym. And it’s a really freaking big gym. Lately, I’d gotten into the habit of grabbing onto things when
I walk, and generally walking less, so it’s surprising how unstable I feel when I’m walking out in open space. It’s embarrassing, considering there’s a guy
who’s about seventy walking on the other side of the gym and doing a hell of a lot better at it than I am. About halfway through my walk, Kelly starts
following me. Which turns out to be a good thing, because a minute later, I trip over my toes and almost go flying.
“Jesus,” Kelly comments. “You almost fell.”
Yeah. No kidding.
I scratch at my head. “Um. I don’t usually… well, it’s gotten maybe… a little worse.”
Kelly raises her eyebrows. “Do you fall a lot?”
I drop my eyes. “Well, sometimes.”
“What do you do usually?” she asks me. “Hold onto things when you walk?”
Christ, how did she know? I nod.
“Look, I’m going to be straight with you, Matt,” she says. “You’ve got zero strength in that right ankle. Nada. My recommendation would be to get a
brace for that ankle.”
“A brace?” I frown. “I already ACE wrap it…”
“I’m talking about a plastic brace,” she says. “Something that will give you real support and keep you from tripping over your toes. It’s called an
Ankle Foot Orthosis, or AFO for short. You could probably use one on your left ankle too, but we can hold off on that. For now.”
I shake my head. “I don’t get it. I’m supposed to be getting better. All you’re talking about is putting some stupid braces on my ankles to keep me from
tripping. How is that supposed to get me better?”
“It isn’t going to get you better,” Kelly says, flicking her eyes down at my legs. “It’s going to keep you from falling down a flight of stairs and
breaking your neck. Then if you start regaining strength, we can wean you off the braces.”
“When I start regaining strength,” I correct her. “I mean, listen, I’m only twenty-six. I’m going to get better. What the hell do you people think is
wrong with me?”
The way Kelly is looking at me gives me that same terrified feeling that I had back in Dr. Dunne’s examining room. I want to shake her and beg her to
tell me the truth—tell me what she thinks is wrong with me. But then again, maybe I don’t want to know.
“I’m sure you’ll get better,” Kelly says with a very phony-looking smile. “But in the meantime, let’s get you measured for that AFO.”
Chapter 11: Anna
You’ll be happy to know that I’ve figured out the solution to my knee problem. No thanks to Dr. Lewis.
My whole issue is that I don’t want to be in the elevator with other people. I can handle it if I’m alone in there. Not that I enjoy being in an elevator
under any circumstances—it does somewhat resemble being in a coffin while standing up. That said, as long as I’m not breathing the same air as other
coworkers, I can endure the ride.
The solution therefore involves staying at work until everyone else has already headed home. By six, the office is generally quite empty. By seven, I’m
nearly guaranteed to have the elevator to myself. Occasionally, I’ll need to let a car pass me by, but usually if I stick it out, I’ll get one to myself. The only
alternative would be to wear a facemask in the elevator, but I suspect that won’t go over well.
The double bonus to this is that I can use the extra time and solitude to clean my cubicle. Not that it wasn’t clean already. But I used to do a bit of a
rush job, because I recognized that wiping down my entire workstation with Lysol every day wasn’t helping the Crazy Anna situation.
Fortunately, now that I’m staying late, I can completely sterilize my cubicle without fear of my coworkers whispering about it behind my back. And
I’ve cleaned a few of the others while I’m at it. For example, Jim in the next aisle always leaves empty cans of Diet Coke on his desk and it drives me crazy
—I have to dispose of them. Or Melissa at the end of our row always has at least half a dozen balled up tissues on her desk, which baffles me considering
that there’s a perfectly acceptable trash bin under the desk.
Matt took forever to leave today. In general, I don’t mind so much if Matt sees me do my Lysol routine. He caught me at it a couple of times and he
just smiled at me—not in a teasing way like he’s making fun of me, but in a friendly way. Once he even asked if he could help. He’s the only person I don’t
mind cleaning in front of.
Ever since Matt brought me my groceries that day in the parking garage, I’ve been longing to speak to him again. I wish I could be friends with Matt. I
wish I could sit in the break room with him and have a conversation. I keep trying to think of things that I might say to spark a conversation, but whenever
I’m near him, all those phrases sound inane and I start to panic at the thought of talking to him. I’m not skilled at small talk. Or really, any kind of talk. So
all I can do is smile back at Matt when he smiles at me.
Today is different though. Today I heard Matt sneeze at 3:57 in the afternoon, so I am definitely going to have to wipe down his cubicle too. And
while he might allow me to do it if I asked, the thought of actually asking him is nearly unthinkable to me.
Once the coast is clear, I enter Matt’s cubicle cautiously. It looks a lot like mine, except that it doesn’t have cans stacked on the side. He keeps it tidy,
especially compared with some of his coworkers—there are no empty cans or balled up tissues. There’s no trash at all. There is a coffee cup ring next to his
mouse pad and a small stack of papers pushed against the cubicle wall, but that’s the only sign that someone has been working here today.
I notice for the first time that Matt has two photos tacked to the wall of his cubicle, and I spend a minute studying them. One of the photos is of an
older couple that I assume must be his parents. He favors his mother more than his father—I see his smile on her face and they have the same kind brown
eyes. There’s also a photo of Matt with some friends of his wearing heavy coats and holding skis on what appears to be a mountain of snow. Matt is
grinning at the camera and looks like he’s having a great time. I don’t think I’ve ever looked as happy in a photo as he does in that picture.
I notice that the photo of him with his friends is hung slightly crookedly. It is clearly rotated at least fifteen degrees counterclockwise. How could he
not notice such a thing? I reach out my finger to straighten out the photo when I hear a voice say:
“What are you doing?”
Chapter 12: Matt
I’ve got an MRI scheduled and I’m running late.
I’ve never had an MRI before and I’m nervous. Apparently, it’s not fun. Calvin had one of his shoulder, and I remember he told me that you go in this
donut hole, and there are loud clanging noises all around your head. He said he had needed earplugs. And a sedative.
The part that bugs me is that I’m not getting an MRI of my ankle, even though that’s the part of me that’s not working right. I’m getting an MRI of my
back and my brain. Dr. Dunne is convinced that’s where the problem is, no matter what I tell him.
It freaks me out enough that there might be something wrong with my back, but the thought of something being wrong with my brain really scares the
shit out of me. Does he think I have a brain tumor? It’s the only thing that comes to mind. And if that’s the case, then what? I mean, a brain tumor is
fucking cancer, right? Do I have cancer? I had a classmate in high school who had cancer and she ended up going through chemotherapy and lost all her
hair and was really sick for a long time.
Shit. Now I’m really getting myself freaked out.
I’m probably fine. I still think it’s just my Achilles. How could my ankles bothering me be a brain tumor anyway?
I make it all the way to my car when I realize I forgot my phone at my desk. Lately, it seems like I’d forget my balls if they weren’t inside my scrotum.
Of course, maybe the forgetfulness has something to do with what’s wrong with me. Maybe it’s another sign of cancer.
Fuck.
Anyway, I’m not going anywhere without my phone. So I have to go all the way back upstairs to get my goddamn phone. At least everyone is mostly
gone for the day, so the elevators are empty. I don’t feel like making small talk. I just want to get my phone and get the hell out of here.
Except when I get to my cubicle, I get a surprise: Anna is there.
She’s standing in the middle of my cubicle, holding a bottle of Lysol. The Lysol part isn’t surprising because she is freaking always holding Lysol.
Anna is famous for her Lysol. I think it’s surgically attached. There have been at least a dozen times I’ve caught her spraying down her own cubicle or the
break room. I know most people think it’s nuts, but I actually find it cute.
But what I don’t expect to see is that her finger is touching a photo of my parents I’ve got tacked on the wall of my cubicle.
And it’s not cute right now. It’s not cute that she’s in my space, messing with my stuff when she thinks I’m gone. Especially when I’m about to take a
test that may or may not show a big ass tumor in my brain.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I snap at her.
Obviously, she had no idea I was standing there. She backs up so abruptly she nearly trips over my chair. She stares at me with those huge blue eyes
and some of my anger fades.
“Oh,” she says. She’s gripping the Lysol bottle so hard, her knuckles are white. “I just… I wasn’t… see, I was straightening your photos.”
“Straightening my photos?” She’s out of her mind. She’s really, truly crazy.
Anna raises her slightly pointed chin. “Yes. They were crooked. So I, um, fixed them for you.”
It takes all my self-restraint not to say something mean. I want to tell her that she’s nuts and that she needs to seek counseling or some shit like that,
but I’m sure it’s something she’s heard a million times before. Anna’s got plenty of problems already.
“Okay, fine,” I mutter. “Whatever.”
A worried crease remains between Anna’s pale eyebrows. “I could put them back the way they were?” she offers.
I shake my head. Does she really think I care if my photos are tilted fifteen degrees clockwise? But obviously, she cares. She probably thought she was
helping me. “No, that’s okay. Do what you need to do. Just… try not to leave any streaks on my monitor.”
Her shoulders relax and she rewards me with a smile. It must be exhausting to be Anna Flint. I mean, Christ, she couldn’t even manage to get out of
the supermarket with her groceries the other day. When she raced off, I quickly mumbled to the irate cashier that the two of us were together, then shelled
out nearly a hundred bucks for her stuff. I couldn’t let her leave without her groceries. I had to help her.
I reach into the drawer of my desk and pull out the phone I left behind, before I forget yet again. Anna just stands there with her Lysol bottle, waiting
for me to be done. Oh well. There are worse things than having my workstation cleaned for me. Maybe she’ll get out that coffee ring I left behind from the
morning.
I make my way down the aisle for the second time today. Christ, I hate carpeting. At the end of the day, it’s like walking through molasses. Kelly’s
supposed to get me my AFO tomorrow, and I’m actually looking forward to that extra support. I don’t have time for this shit. I’m already late as it is. I’ve
got fifteen minutes to get out of here and drive across town. The people who scheduled the MRI told me to show up twenty minutes early, but that’s clearly
a lost cause.
I speed up a bit, but that ends up being a huge mistake. My right foot snags on the carpet, and before I know it, I’ve face-planted on the ground.
Well, this sucks.
I sit on the floor for a minute, stunned by the fall. Despite the fact that it’s been happening to me with more frequency lately, it always knocks the wind
out of me when I find myself on the ground. I rest my face in my palms, taking a few deep breaths to calm myself down.
“Are you okay, Matt? What happened?”
It’s Anna. She’s standing over me, staring. Glad the girl I’m into got to see me fall on my ass. That’s just perfect. This absolutely could not have
happened at a better time.
“Nothing happened,” I snap at her. “I tripped. That’s all.”
“Oh.” Anna just stands there. “Um. Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I mumble. “Completely fine.”
A normal human being, at this point, might have offered me her hand to help me get back on my feet. Not Anna. Anna doesn’t touch other people.
That’s common knowledge here. Calvin actually had this game where he’d try to stand close to her and she’d back away, and he’d get close again, and so
forth. I made him quit doing it because it was mean and really immature, but the fact remains: Anna doesn’t touch people and she doesn’t want to be
touched. Which is just another reason why my fantasies about her are just plain stupid.
So it’s up to me to get off the floor on my own. Which unfortunately, isn’t the easiest thing in the world when I’ve got a bum ankle. I support myself
on my left ankle and lean against the side of the nearest cubicle, hoping my weight doesn’t knock it down. It takes me several minutes, and Anna is staring
at me the whole time. I don’t entirely blame her.
“I hurt my Achilles,” I explain to her. “A while ago. It’s still bothering me.”
She nods. “That can take a while to heal.”
“Yeah,” I say.
Then I think of my MRI again and I get this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. The truth is that I know it’s not really my Achilles. I know it’s
something more than that. I know that there’s something really wrong with me. After all, normal, healthy guys in their twenties don’t just suddenly fall
while walking.
But I try not to think about that as I make my way carefully through the carpeted office, holding on to the furniture as I walk so that I don’t fall again.
Chapter 13: Anna
Even after Matt leaves, I keep thinking about the way he fell.
It was strange. Very strange. Matt is athletic—I know that based on his physique and the conversations he has with Calvin Fitzgerald about their
basketball games. I know he goes to the gym with some frequency. So for him to fall while walking down a carpeted hallway seems incredibly odd.
Yet the fact remains: Matt fell.
And while he did seem shaken by the whole thing, he didn’t seem entirely surprised. And that was the oddest thing of all.
Although looking back, the worst part was that while Matt was lying sprawled on the ground, I didn’t offer him my hand. That’s what any normal
human being would have done—I recognize that. And it’s not like I didn’t want to offer him my hand. I wanted to. More than he ever could have realized.
But all I could think about was the fact that he was on the dirty, sticky, disgusting, contaminated floor, which meant that his hands were on the dirty,
sticky, disgusting, contaminated floor. For goodness sake, I can’t touch the floor. The floor is literally one of the more horrible things I can imagine
touching. People walk on the floor in their dirty shoes that have tracked in all the dirt from the ground outside.
I did try. I at least tried to try. I walked over to where Matt was sprawled out on the ground with the intention of trying to help him get up. I said to
myself: Anna, give him your hand.
Help him, Anna!
In the end, I couldn’t do it. I just stood there, like an insensitive clod, while Matt glared up at me. Usually when I have a close call like that where I feel
obligated to touch someone but don’t, I feel nothing but relief. But as Matt made his way out of the office, I felt horrible. I was worried that he hated me,
but also, I couldn’t stop thinking about what his hand might have felt like in my own. I bet it would have felt warm and large.
Also, he looked like he could really use some help.
That was odd too.
I’m still thinking about the whole thing while I pull out of my spot in the parking garage for our office building. In general, I’m an incredibly cautious
driver, but at this moment, I’m not entirely focused on the mirrors, and that’s when I hear the noise:
A thump.
My heart stops in my chest. Literally. It pauses beating for about three seconds, then resumes a slightly less regular thumping. That happens to me
sometimes. It’s the sort of thing that I definitely would have liked to go to a doctor for, except when I looked it up, it sounded like occasionally irregular
heartbeats are not unusual in young people. So I still become frightened when that happens, but it’s not nearly as frightening as that thump.
I immediately put the car in park, afraid that if I pull back into my parking spot, I might run over again whatever (or whoever) it was that I ran over in
the first place. I jump out of my car and look under the wheels.
Nothing is there.
No people. No animals. No garbage. Nothing.
It was all just my imagination. Thank goodness.
I get back in my car and pull out of the spot entirely. I drive down the row of cars, but I still can’t shake the bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. I
heard a thump. That was obviously something. Or someone.
I hit someone. I’m certain of it. I must have been unable to see them because it was too dark under my car.
Oh my God, I have to get them help. What if someone is lying on the floor, bleeding internally, clinging to life by a thread, waiting for someone to
stop and help them? I can’t just leave a human being lying there to die. That would make me a murderess.
I circle back around to the spot where I had parked. Okay, there are no dead or bleeding bodies lying on the pavement. I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe
I didn’t hit anyone. Maybe I can leave.
Again, I make my way out of the lot. But I haven’t quite gotten my car out when it occurs to me that maybe when I hit the person, their body rolled
under another car. And that’s why I didn’t see them.
I have to check.
I circle around again, and drive back to where I had been parked. Of course, I’m one of the last people to leave, so the lot is fairly empty. But who
knows how far the body might have rolled? I have to check under every remaining car. I can’t risk having hit someone who might need medical attention.
I’m in the process of checking under a third car when I hear a voice calling to me: “You okay over there, Miss?”
I straighten up and see the parking garage attendant, Kenny, is jogging towards me. His jog slows to a walk when he sees my face.
“Oh,” he says. “I didn’t realize it was you, Miss Flint.”
“Kenny,” I gasp. I look down at my hands and see that they’re shaking. I squeeze them into fists to try to get them to stop. I need to remain calm. “I
need your help! I think I may have accidentally hit someone with my car!”
Kenny is a big guy with a shaved head, dark skin, and eyes that look very white in the dim light of the parking garage. He frowns and a deep groove
forms between his eyebrows.
“Miss Flint,” he says in a heavy voice. “I really don’t think you hit anyone.”
Is he serious? I just confessed to him that I committed vehicular manslaughter and he’s blowing me off? That must be a crime in itself. If I went to jail,
he’d be charged as my accomplice.
“I did!” I cry. “I’m sure of it! I just have to find them. Maybe we can get them to a hospital in time to save them.”
“Miss Flint,” he says again, shaking his bald head. “If you hit someone, we’d see them, wouldn’t we? They’d be lying on the ground, all bloody and
stuff.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Not necessarily. Not if they rolled under one of the cars.”
“I don’t think so,” is all Kenny says to that.
“Please help me look,” I say. I’m biting my lip to keep from crying.
“I can’t do this with you every week.” He lets out a long sigh. “You need to go on home, Miss Flint.”
A tear escapes from my left eye and I swipe at it furiously. “I can’t!”
Kenny sighs again. “Okay, then.”
He ambles away, while I continue looking under all the cars. I just need to check and make sure there are no injured pedestrians under the cars. Once I
check under every single car, I’ll know for sure I didn’t hit anyone. Then I can go home.
Chapter 14: Matt
Once again, I’m sitting in the office of Dr. Dunne. I’ve gotten to know him pretty good in the last couple of months. He and I are great buddies now. You
get close to someone real quick when they stick a giant needle in your spine.
That happened a week ago. I had something called a lumbar puncture, in which I lay down on my side on a table while he removed some of my spinal
fluid with a needle. The needle sliding into my lower back was less painful than it was slightly dizzying and sickening. As I left his office, I had a
throbbing headache over my left eye that lasted until the next morning.
Dr. Dunne still hasn’t given me any real answers. I was stuck in the donut hole of an MRI machine for over an hour to get a test that he informed me
was “inconclusive,” so that’s why I had to have the lumbar puncture. All this for an ankle injury. I really have to question the state of medicine in this
country.
Today I’m supposed to get some answers. I better, in any case. I’m not going through one more test until Dr. Dunne tells me what the hell he thinks is
wrong with me.
I’m sitting on his examining table, fully dressed. I didn’t even take off my shoes, because I need them to hold in place my right ankle-foot orthosis.
AFO, for short. It’s a black plastic brace that cups my calf and then snakes down into my shoe to support the entirety of my foot. I love it, actually. I was
resistant at first, but I’m walking so much better now—I haven’t fallen once or even close since I started using it. I’m almost tempted to try basketball
again, but I’ll wait a bit. Not that I want to wear the AFO forever, but it really isn’t bad at all. Just until I heal.
Dr. Dunne walks into the examining room after his usual single knock. He’s not smiling, but that’s par for the course with this guy. Dr. Dunne never
smiles—at least not around me. I bet he’s fun at parties.
“Hi, Matt,” he says. I gave him permission to call me by my first name. I got sick of the Mr. Harper shit. Mr. Harper is my father, etc. etc.
“Hi, Dr. Dunne,” I say. He has not given me permission to call him by his first name.
“So you know I called you here to talk about the results of your tests,” he begins.
My stomach clenches up. As much as I wanted to know what’s going on, the thought of finding out the truth makes me physically ill. And it’s clear
from the doctor’s face that he doesn’t have any good news to deliver.
“Is it a brain tumor?” I blurt out.
He gives me a funny look. “I told you that the MRI wasn’t indicative of a tumor, didn’t I, Matt?”
“No, you said it was inconclusive.”
He nods. “Yes, that’s true. And I can’t give you a definitive diagnosis today either.” I barely have time to feel relieved when he adds, “But all the
diagnostic testing and your examination findings point to a diagnosis of primary progressive multiple sclerosis.”
“What?” I say. That’s another thing about Dr. Dunne—he likes the medical mumbo jumbo. But whatever he said sounds frightening.
Dr. Dunne looks me straight in the eyes. “You most likely have multiple sclerosis.”
I will remember this moment forever. Sitting in Dr. Dunne’s office, feeling completely healthy except for my stupid ankle, and having him tell me he
thinks I have multiple sclerosis. I mean, multiple sclerosis? Is he kidding me? Those people are crippled. In wheelchairs. I’m fine. How could he think I
have that? What kind of doctor is this guy? I would believe a brain tumor before I’d believe that.
“Do you know what multiple sclerosis is?” he asks me.
“Yeah,” I say. “But I don’t have that.”
“Well,” he says thoughtfully, “you can’t receive a diagnosis yet, because your symptoms need to be present for an entire year. But everything else
points to that diagnosis. At this point, I’d say I’m about 98% sure.” He folds his arms across his chest. “You most likely have a variant on the disease that’s
less common than the typical relapsing remitting form of the disease.”
“Is that… better?” I ask.
He hesitates before answering. “The typical presentation of multiple sclerosis is to have lesions in the spinal cord and brain that cause symptoms that
are bothersome for a short time but then improve. Your symptoms have not improved and the lesions on your MRI were all in your spinal cord, which
points to a primary progressive variant of the disease that progresses over time and affects the spinal cord preferentially.”
“Okay…” I look down at my right ankle, hanging innocuously off the side of the examining table. Maybe multiple sclerosis isn’t as bad as the things
I’ve heard. Maybe some people get crippled by it but others just have bum ankles. “So does this mean my ankle won’t get better?”
“Mr. Harper,” Dr. Dunne says. Uh oh, we’re back to Mr. Harper. “If this diagnosis is accurate, I’d expect that your symptoms will not only not
improve, but will continue to progress. I would expect that you’re going to have increasing difficulty walking over the next several years.”
I stare at him. “What do you mean by ‘difficulty walking’?”
“Given the cases I’ve seen,” he says, “I’d be very surprised if you’re still able to walk in five years from now.”
Great job, Dr. Dunne. You have succeeded in absolutely terrifying me.
I just stare at him for a minute. There’s this awful tight feeling in my chest, like I’m having a heart attack. I’d be very surprised if you’re still able to
walk in five years from now. Is this some kind of joke? How could there be so much fuss over a stupid ankle injury?
I wish I’d never gone to a doctor in the first place.
“I know this is a lot to absorb,” Dr. Dunne says.
Gee, you think?
“There are support groups for patients with MS,” he continues.
Now it’s MS. Like some buddy I call by his initials. Hey, MS, how’s it hanging? Have you crippled me yet? No? How about next year?
“So how do we treat this?” I ask him. “Do I go on a medication or something?”
Dr. Dunne shakes his head. “The medications for multiple sclerosis are aimed at treating the inflammatory component. But the primary progressive
form of the disease doesn’t respond to any of the usual medications. We can try them, of course, but they all have a lot of side effects.”
“Well, great,” I mutter.
I look down at my right ankle again. I know what Dr. Dunne is telling me. I mean, I get it. But it’s incredibly hard to believe. Patients get
misdiagnosed all the time, and I feel convinced that Dr. Dunne must be wrong. I can’t possibly have multiple sclerosis. I’m completely healthy. This is
insane.
And that part about not walking in five years from now? That’s really ridiculous.
Man, I can’t wait to walk in here five years from now and show Dr. Dunne how wrong he was.
Year Two
Chapter 15: Matt
“So what’s the deal, Matt?” Calvin asks me. “Are you celibate now or what?”
Calvin and I are at our usual after-work bar, getting drinks. Calvin is looking around the dark room, rating girls on a scale of one to ten, trying to figure
out what lucky ten is going to be the object of his affections tonight. I’m mostly focusing on my beer, which has been the case more and more lately.
I have multiple sclerosis. Officially. Dr. Dunne diagnosed it a few months ago and now it’s all over my chart. It’s that primary progressive type, which
means that the symptoms I’ve been having are going to get progressively worse over time. In the last year, walking has gone from something I hardly
thought about to something that is becoming more and more of a challenge. I broke down and let Kelly fit me for a brace for my left ankle too and I had to
swap out the right AFO for one that’s more supportive, but lately, I’ve found it’s not enough. I’m holding onto furniture when I walk and I took a bad spill
at home a week ago.
Kelly’s advice? Get a cane. You know, a walking stick like old men use. That’s not going to happen though. I’m not using a cane. No. Way. Nobody
knows I’ve got these braces on my ankles, but a cane would take things to a whole new level. I’m not going there.
If you think it’s easy to go out there and hit on girls when you’ve got braces on both ankles, you’re wrong. All I can think about when I talk to the
opposite sex is what they’ll think when they see those very unsexy plastic braces strapped to my ankles. Or shit, I don’t know, what if I fall right in front of
her? That’s definitely not out of the realm of possibility.
Talk about confidence killers.
“I don’t know,” I mumble. “I’m just not interested in anything right now.”
“I’m not talking about meeting the love of your life,” Calvin snorts. “I’m talking about a little pussy for a night. You used to like pussy, didn’t you,
Matt?”
Yeah. I did. I still do. It just seems a lot more evasive than it used to be.
Calvin nudges me. “What about those two?”
I look where he’s pointing. There are two girls sitting two tables over, a blonde and a brunette, both of them in tight little dresses that ride up nearly to
their thongs. The blonde is a ten, easy. The brunette is a seven. An eight, at best. She’s the kind of girl who wouldn’t have even been a challenge one year
ago. Now looking at her makes my palms sweaty.
“I’ll pass,” I say.
“No,” Calvin says. “We are not passing. Seriously, Matt. You are getting laid tonight. Whether you like it or not.” He winks at me. “But I think you’ll
like it.”
I probably would. I mean, I’m about to get carpal tunnel from all the jerking off I do. (Or go blind. Is that a real thing? I’ve never been completely
sure.)
So I let Calvin buy the girls drinks and they come over to our table. They’re Lily and Sue. Lily is the gorgeous blond who is model hot up close, and
Sue is the brunette, who is only a seven up close. She’s got a bit too much double chin and her lips are too thin—not that I mind any of that. Calvin doesn’t
waste any time in getting his arm around Lily to claim her as his own, as if I could manage to string two words together around a woman who looks like
Lily. That leaves me and Sue looking at each other awkwardly.
“How are you doing?” I finally say.
Wow. I’m really a Casanova tonight.
“Good,” Sue says.
“Is that your first drink?” I ask, nodding at her beer.
“Second,” Sue says.
Let’s make it three.
Two beers later, Sue and I are making out. I love the taste of beer and buffalo sauce on her breath. And I don’t give a shit that she’s a seven or a two or
a million, because I haven’t kissed a girl in six months. And she’s drunk enough that she won’t give a shit or even notice my AFOs. I can do this. I really
want this to happen.
“Hey,” Sue murmurs in my ear. “You wanna get out of here, Matt-Matt?”
That’s become my nickname during the course of our one-hour whirlwind romance. It’s fucking annoying, but whatever. Like Calvin said, I’m not
looking for love. Just a little pussy.
“Sure,” I say.
Sue grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet, which is actually helpful. The bar is crowded, which is helpful and not helpful. My trick for walking is to
grab on to tables and chairs as much as possible, so the fact that there’s lots of both around makes me feel confident and stable in my walking. However, I
know that a foot sticking out just a bit too much could easily trip me up. I have to be careful. Always.
“Ummm,” Sue says as we get outside. “I prooooobly shouldn’t drive. I’m just a wee bit tipsy. Wanna get a cab, Matt-Matt?”
“I can drive,” I say. I mean it. I’ve only had that one beer the whole night. Because when I get “tipsy,” I get tipsy. Literally. If staying on my feet is the
goal, I can’t get shitfaced anymore.
Sue is too drunk to even question me. She tells me her address and I plug it in to my GPS with shaking fingers. I may not be drunk, but I’m horny as
all hell—my boner is almost painful. I can’t wait to get to her place.
Sue explains during the drive that she’s sharing a small house with friends. Then she starts babbling something about how her roommate always eats
all the frosted flakes, and I zone out. I don’t care what she’s talking about. I don’t like this girl, but I want her. All I can think about is what’s between her
legs.
When I get to the end of her driveway, I see she’s got three steps to get to the front door. No railing. Stairs—they are the death of me. I actually had to
move from the apartment I used to live in, because there were two flights of stairs to get there, and it was taking me nearly half an hour every day. Sue only
has three steps, but there’s no railing. I hate to admit it, but a cane would be awesome right now.
“What are you doing?” Sue laughs as she sees me carefully making my way up the steps. “You want to come in, don’t you?”
“Of course,” I say.
I get up the stairs without falling and it’s a miracle. She fumbles with her keys for so long that I finally take them from her and open the door for her.
The door sticks slightly before it swings open.
“Welcome to Casa Suzanne!” she proclaims, spreading her arms out in front of her.
Oh Christ, this place is a dump. I thought guys were slobs, but the women who live here are disgusting. There’s garbage all over the floor and random
clothing slung over the furniture. Their coffee table has two open pizza boxes on top of it with congealing cheese in the center.
“You can take off your shoes,” Sue tells me.
I’m not taking off my shoes. First of all, there are so many identifiable stains and spills and garbage on the ground that I’d never want to be in my bare
feet. But also, I need my shoes to hold my AFOs in place. Without my AFOs, I can walk, but barely. I can’t even make it to the bathroom in the middle of
the night if I need to take a piss, which is why I keep a jug next to my bed, just in case. I need my braces and I need to keep my shoes on. Luckily, she’s too
drunk to notice.
 “My bedroom is this way,” Sue tells me with a wink.
I have to follow her through the living room, which is treacherous at best. I hold onto her couch to make it without falling, because there is crap all
over the floor. There’s a moment when part of me wants to say the hell with it, but then I look up and see her sexy little body moving in front of me, and I
instantly forget all my reservations.
Holy shit, I want her. I want her so bad. I would do literally anything right now to fuck this girl, even though she’s only a seven. It’s been that long.
She’s on the heavy side, but it suits her. She’s got a great ass and big breasts that are straining against her tank top. I want this so much. If someone told me
I couldn’t have her, I’d probably cry.
Sue has been drinking enough that I don’t have to overthink things too much. The second we get in her bedroom, she starts kissing me, and I guide us
to her bed before I lose my balance and she has to pick me up off the floor. She never turned the lights on, which is a good thing. I can get my shoes and
my braces off without her seeing anything.
And then I get the release I’ve been waiting for. Entirely worth it.
Chapter 16: Anna
It may or may not surprise you to learn that I have never kissed a boy.
I don’t want to kiss anyone. It’s distasteful. I think the Eskimos had the right idea with rubbing noses. The mouth is arguably the dirtiest part of the
human body, and the idea of exchanging all those colonies of germs with another person makes my physically ill.
I don’t know when this realization occurred to me. I remember my parents kissing me when I was a child and finding it not unpleasant. I suppose it
was around the same point that I stopped buying food from the high school cafeteria.
Nobody asked me out in high school. I suspect the boys knew that anyone who asked me on a date would be teased mercilessly. It was a relief not to
receive any invitations to prom or otherwise. I was only too happy to stay home and study.
In college, I went on a few dates here and there. During my sophomore year, I agreed to a date with Rob Nichols in my Compilers class, because he
seemed intelligent and well-spoken although short. He took me to an Italian restaurant, which was the first restaurant I had been to in two years.
The moment we walked into the restaurant, I told Rob that I was going to go wash my hands. He nodded while I went to find the bathroom. The soap
in the bathroom was running low, which made me very nervous—why hadn’t I anticipated this problem and brought my own soap with me? And then after
washing my hands for 121 seconds, I touched the door to the bathroom, which felt sticky, and then I had to wash my hands again.
“Where were you?” Rob demanded to know when I finally emerged from the bathroom.
“Washing my hands,” I said. I looked down at his hands, which suddenly seemed to be swirling with bacteria. “Aren’t you going to wash yours?”
“They’re clean,” he said.
“I highly doubt that,” I told him. “When is the last time you washed them?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Probably the last time I used the bathroom.”
“And when was that?”
Rob didn’t seem to enjoy my grilling him on the cleanliness of his hands, and he changed the subject, but by that point, I had become convinced that
his hands were contaminated. I also noticed the greasy pores at his hairline, which were undoubtedly teeming with bacteria. Every time I looked at them, I
had to excuse myself to wash my hands.
I ordered baked ziti and he ordered chicken picata. When our food arrived and I picked up my fork to eat, I found myself unable to actually eat. I held
my fork up to the candlelight and noticed a little smudge on it. I knew it—the fork hadn’t been properly cleaned.
“What’s wrong?” Rob asked me.
“My fork is dirty,” I told him.
“Oh.” He squinted at the fork. “Do you want to ask the waiter for another fork?”
Except if this fork wasn’t clean, then how could I be certain that any other fork was properly cleaned? I couldn’t be. I suppose I could have gone to the
bathroom to clean it myself, but the soap was nearly used up by my frequent trips to wash my hands. I should have brought my own silverware.
“Do you want a new fork or not?” Rob asked me.
I shook my head. And refused to eat any of my meal.
When the check came later, Rob reached for it, but I quickly reached into my purse for my wallet. “I want to pay for half,” I told him.
Rob flashed me what was the only smile he’d given me since we entered the restaurant. “No, that’s okay. I’ll pay.”
“No, I don’t want you to pay for me,” I said. “Because if you do, you’ll expect me to kiss you at the end of the night.”
Rob stared at me, open-mouthed. It was true though. And I was grateful when he let me pay for my uneaten baked ziti, and in turn, did not attempt to
kiss me. It was worth the price of the meal.
I went on a few other dates after that, but each one was increasingly unpleasant. During my senior year, I made the decision not to date anymore. Ever.
I can’t say it’s impacted my life in any negative way, especially considering my dates were always few and far between. My parents aren’t thrilled
about this, unfortunately. They can’t understand why I don’t want to be in a relationship like “every other woman on the planet.” They tell me not
infrequently that I should see a psychiatrist.
Of course, my parents have already forced me to see a psychiatrist in the past. The experience was enough for me to recognize that a psychiatrist could
not help me, and would only tell me terrible things about myself.
In any case, from what I can see, relationships aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. For example, I overheard that Heidi in reception caught her longtime
boyfriend cheating on her and she spent the better half of a week sobbing. Richard down the row from us recently went through a very messy divorce. And
those are only the ones that I know about from what I’ve overheard. And I can’t even imagine what it’s like to have another person living in my home,
touching and contaminating everything. For these reasons, I have very little desire to subject myself to a relationship.
When I’m driving down the block as I leave work today, I see Matt stumbling out of a bar with some girl, his hand resting on the small of her back. I
used to sometimes overhear him and Calvin Fitzgerald discussing their conquests in Matt’s cubicle, but I haven’t heard anything like that in a while.
Months, maybe.
I slow down my speed to a crawl, carefully observing the girl that Matt has chosen to be his conquest of the night. I do not know what Matt’s “type” is,
but I suppose this woman is somewhat attractive. If you like a girl with black makeup all over her eyes and bright red lipstick. Or a girl who is wearing a
skirt that’s at least two sizes too tight for her, resulting in the proverbial “muffin top.” I wouldn’t, but I suppose I’m not Matt.
They pause for a second, exchange drunken smiles, and the girl shoves Matt against the wall of a building so that she can kiss him. She’s all over him,
her chubby body pressed against his, her arms flung around his neck. Even from my car, I can tell how much she’s enjoying kissing him.
I don’t know why he’s kissing her. Does he actually like this horrible girl? Does he feel sexual attraction toward her? The way he’s kissing her back
would indicate that yes, he does. But he’s likely been drinking and that might explain his choice. I’m sure they have nothing in common. I’m sure she
doesn’t know how sweet he is and what a brilliant programmer he is.
For a split second, I wonder what it must be like to be that girl. I wonder what it would feel like if Matt had me pushed against a building and lowered
his lips onto mine. Strangely enough, I don’t feel panicked at the thought of it. I imagine that his lips would be soft, his breath would be sweet, and his
mouth would be warm. My body tingles at the fantasy.
Of course, in reality, I don’t know if I could do it. If Matt ever leaned in for a kiss, I would probably fly into a panic. Good thing I’ll never have the
chance to find out.
Chapter 17: Matt
Usually, when I’m at a girl’s place, I make a quiet exit while she’s asleep. Staying through the night is a dumb thing to do if you don’t intend to see a girl
ever again. It makes her expect things. Like breakfast. Plus the girl never looks anywhere as good as she looked the night before and we don’t have
anything in common when we’re sober, and it’s all just depressing.
Dr. Dunne warned me that fatigue is a symptom of multiple sclerosis. It’s definitely one I’ve been noticing more and more lately. Last weekend, I
spent practically the whole day in bed on Sunday—I just couldn’t make myself get up. In any case, without meaning to, I spend the whole goddamn night
at Sue’s place, and next thing I know, she’s rubbing my arm and saying, “Wake up, sleepyhead.”
All I can think is, Oh shit.
“Hey,” I say carefully. I wince at the sight of Sue’s puffy face and smeared mascara. Now that I’m not horny, I’d say she’s more of a six, at best. Not
that it would have mattered in the slightest last night. She could have literally been a dog.
“How about some breakfast, Matt-Matt?” she asks in an overly peppy voice.
Shit.
“I’ve got sort of a….” I rub my eyes, trying to think of a way to get the hell out of here. Nothing is coming to me. I’m too tired to think straight.
I watch Sue roll out of bed, naked. Actually, maybe I shouldn’t make a quick getaway. I find Sue annoying, but on the other hand, it’s been a long time
since I’ve been out with a woman. I wouldn’t mind a date with Sue. Actually, I’d love it.
Maybe Sue is girlfriend material. She’s not so gorgeous that she’d reject me outright. Maybe I could break the MS thing to her slowly and she’d be
okay with it. That would be nice—to have someone to confide in about all this shit that’s been happening to me lately. I haven’t talked to a soul about it
aside from medical professionals. Even my parents don’t know.
“Yeah, okay,” I finally say.
“I’ll make you eggs,” Sue says with a sleepy smile. She grabs a pink frilly housecoat off the wall and sits next to me.
So here’s the annoying part. Sue isn’t leaving. She’s just sitting there, waiting for me to get dressed to go out of her room.
“Breakfast in bed?” I ask hopefully.
Sue laughs and tugs at my arm. “Get up, you lazy bum.”
I remind myself she isn’t actually doing anything wrong. Most guys—the overwhelming majority of guys—would be able to get up and follow her to
the living room. Except I can’t just “get up.” I need my goddamn ankle braces. And she doesn’t get it. But I realize that if I don’t do something quick, I’ll
be on my ass on the floor.
“Okay,” I say, “just hang on. Let me get dressed. You can go ahead.”
But she doesn’t go ahead. She just shrugs and sits there while I get my pants on, which I do by leaning against the bed while I pull them up. That part
is easy. But now I’ve got to get my AFOs on.
I grab one of my shoes, which has the brace sticking out of it. I mean, it isn’t the worst thing in the world. The original black one I had wasn’t bad at
all—you could barely see it—but the ones I have now are not nearly as inconspicuous. They are made of translucent white plastic that run up nearly to my
knees and wrap around my entire calf muscle. And there are Velcro straps to hold them in place.
Sue watches me put on my AFOs and shoes, and when I look up at her, her eyes are really wide. I mean, ridiculously wide, considering I’m not
bludgeoning someone to death on her bed. I mean, Christ. They’re just ankle braces.
In any case, the fantasy of going out on a date with her tonight or at any point in the future flies right out the window.
“Sorry,” she says when she notices I’m staring. “I just… I didn’t realize you were crippled.” Her face colors. “Sorry, I meant… what do you guys like
to be called? Handi-capable?”
I glare up at her. “I’m not crippled.”
“It’s okay,” Sue says quickly, although she won’t meet my eyes. “I’m not judging you.”
“I just tore my Achilles, that’s all.”
Ah, the old Achilles lie. It doesn’t work though. Sue narrows her eyes at me. “I told you, it’s okay. You don’t have to lie.”
“I’m not fucking lying!” I shoot back at her.
And right now, I don’t even care about ever dating her or fucking her or any of that shit. I never want to fuck her again. I never want to see this girl
again.
“Shit, calm down,” she mutters.
“I’m leaving,” I say. I stand up from her bed, and there’s a scary moment when I nearly lose my balance, and Sue actually has to grab me to keep me
from falling. So much for making a great exit.
I have to make my way back out through Sue’s treacherous living room as she follows close behind. Somehow it’s gotten even more cluttered during
the night, as if all the junk in her house decided to hold a wild party while we slept and didn’t clean up after itself. I have to hold onto the couch again, but I
make it to the front door. And then of course, I’ve got to get down those three goddamn stairs again. Down is even worse than up, in case you were
wondering.
“Do you need help?” Sue asks as I start contemplating the first stair.
I glance back at her. She doesn’t seem angry at me, even though I cursed at her. Then I glance back at the stairs. I think about how emasculating it will
be to have her help me down these stairs, but then think about how badly I might get hurt if I fell down the stairs onto the hard pavement below.
“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”
Sue supports me as I make my way carefully down the stairs. And then she walks next to me to my car. If I were any sort of gentleman, I’d offer to
drive her back to the bar to retrieve her car, but I never was a gentleman, and I’m sure not now.
“Thanks,” I say to her as I unlock the car. I’m not sure what I’m thanking her for exactly. For helping me down the stairs? For fucking me?
“No problem,” Sue says in an overly formal voice.
For reasons I still can’t comprehend, I actually lean in to kiss her. It’s just a reflex. But Sue ducks me very neatly. Yeah, no kiss for the guy with ankle
braces.
Well, at least nobody will call me Matt-Matt ever again.
I try not to think about the whole thing as I drive myself home. I just want to get back to my apartment and take a shower. And forget I ever met Sue. It
was a good release in the moment, but now that it’s over, I feel even worse about myself than I did before.
When I pull up in front of the house where I’m renting the downstairs apartment, my landlady and upstairs neighbor Rosemary is making her way out
to the mailbox in her pink silk housecoat that falls roughly to knee level. Rosie is what Calvin would call a “MILF,” although I’m not actually sure if she’s
a mother at all. She’s maybe in her late forties or early fifties with a sexy, throaty voice, and she’s single as far as I can tell. Based on her last name Conti
and her olive skin and black hair, I’m guessing she’s Italian.
“Hi, Matt.” Rosie waves at me as I get out of my car. “Late night last night?”
“Uh, yeah,” I mumble.
Since I moved in here a few months ago, I’ve gotten the distinct impression that Rosie is interested in hooking up with me. Okay, I’m almost positive
she is. And she’s hot—no doubt about that. But considering this apartment is the perfect living situation for me and I don’t have the energy to move again
right now, I don’t want to mess around with her. I have a feeling that Rosie is all about the drama, based on the fact that I can sometimes hear her shouting
through the vents of my apartment.
Rosie winks at me. “Who’s the lucky lady?”
I scratch at my hair, which I notice now is sticking straight up. Also, I suddenly realize I desperately need to pee. I’m sure I very much look like a guy
coming back from a booty call. “Uh, nobody… much.”
Rosie laughs and lets her housecoat fall open slightly to reveal a teeny tiny tank top underneath. If I hadn’t just gotten laid last night, the sight of it
probably would have made me crazy, but now I’m okay. That’s one good to come out of this.
I carefully make my way the short distance from my car to the door to the apartment. I feel Rosie watching me, but I need to focus all my energy on
walking. She, of course, is not aware that I have anything wrong with me, but she’s seen me ambling back and forth from my car enough times that it’s
possible she might suspect something. It’s possible that everyone I know has been whispering behind my back about how badly I walk. And that’s yet
another thing I don’t want to think about.
Chapter 18: Anna
Usually when I hear the doorbell ring, I get very anxious. I don’t have visitors over often (or at all), so there’s no reason that anyone should be at my door.
Most of the time, my first thought is that it’s the police at the door, coming to arrest me for a pedestrian I struck with my car. On several occasions, a
ringing doorbell has sent me up to my bedroom, where I hid until whoever was at the door gave up and left.
I suppose it was never the police. I’m sure if it had been, I would have learned about it by now.
Today the doorbell ringing doesn’t frighten me because I’m expecting my brother-in-law Jake to arrive to fix my leaking pipe in the upstairs bedroom.
He was supposed to arrive three minutes and twenty-four seconds ago, but Jake isn’t known for being prompt. He’s a mechanic and generally very handy at
fixing things, so he comes over when there’s something in need of repair. I don’t trust outside repairmen or plumbers to come into my home.
I walk over to the door and crack it open with the chain in place just to verify that it’s actually Jake. He’s standing there in a worn T-shirt and jeans, his
dark hair buzzed just millimeters from his skull, a crooked grin on his broad face. I pull the door open, and too late, realize that my sister Lisa is standing
beside him. Not that I wouldn’t have allowed him in if I saw Lisa—I need this pipe fixed.
“Hey, Anna,” Jake says, raising his hand in greeting. He has dirt permanently ground into the cracks in the skin of his hands, which is something that
bothered me immensely when I first met him. The first time he came here, I made him wash his hands repeatedly until I realized the dirt would not come
out. “What’s up?”
“You’re three minutes and twenty-four seconds late,” I feel compelled to point out.
Jake laughs while Lisa rolls her eyes.
“Nice to see you too, Anna,” Jake says. “Where’s that leaky pipe?”
“It’s upstairs,” I tell him. I look down at Jake’s dirty work boots on my welcome mat. “Your shoes…”
“Taking them off,” Jake says before I can complete my thought.
Lisa shoots him a grateful look, which she thinks I don’t notice. I’m not a complete idiot. I am cognizant of the fact that most people are able to
disregard basic hygiene practices without enduring the sort of stress that I do.
Jake removes his boots, but to my horror, he has a large hole in the big toe of his sock. You can nearly see the entirety of his largest toe. While shoes in
my home are upsetting to me, bare feet are a close second. How could Lisa allow her husband to walk around this way?
Well, I suppose there isn’t a lot I can do about it.
As Jake stomps up the stairs, his large frame causing every single step to creak under his weight, Lisa turns to me. She is four years older than I am,
but we are unmistakably sisters. When we were children, I appeared like a shrunken version of Lisa, with the same wispy blond hair, blue eyes, and narrow
frames. Back then, I used to follow Lisa around like she was my hero. My most vivid memory from my childhood with Lisa is of building a snowman with
her on a winter morning, spending hours rolling together balls to make up the body of our man of snow. When it was over, both Lisa and I caught dreadful
colds, but our snowman stood out on our lawn for weeks, long past when my runny nose dried up.
When Lisa got to middle school, she lost interest in her dorky younger sister, and I became entrenched in my studies, even at a young age. Lisa’s world
of boys and makeup no longer interested me. I remember her complaining to our mother that I was “weird.” By the time I graduated from high school at the
top of my class and Lisa had already dropped out of college, we barely knew each other.
The physical differences have magnified as well—Lisa’s figure filled out in her twenties, while I regretfully still have the body of a prepubescent boy.
She has her hair cut into the latest style most flattering to a woman in her early thirties, whereas I trim my own hair into a straight line every three months
in the bathroom, keeping it just above shoulder length so that I can easily tuck it behind my ears.
“Who’s watching Jayden?” As a dutiful aunt, I always inquire after their chronically misbehaved son.
“He’s with a sitter,” Lisa says. “We’re going out to dinner after this.”
How could Jake go out to dinner dressed in jeans and a T-shirt? And with a hole in his sock! My skin starts to crawl at the reminder of Jake walking
around my house with a hole in his sock. His bare toe is all over my floor. What if he has fungus on his toe?
“We’re having a party this weekend,” Lisa says to me. “Do you want to come?”
And Jake is exactly the sort of person who would have toe fungus. He works all day with those heavy boots on his feet. And God knows how often he
showers. It’s the perfect breeding ground for fungus.
“Anna?” Lisa prompts me. “Party? This weekend? Interested?”
A party? “Did Mom tell you to invite me?” I ask her.
A smile crawls across Lisa’s face. “Yes. But I still think you should come.”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t think so.”
There’s probably fungus all over the floor of my bathroom now. I’ll have to spend hours cleaning it after this. Why didn’t I have some socks available
for Jake in case this happened? I should have known that he’s the sort of person who would end up with a hole in his sock. I’ll need to purchase several
packages of socks for his future visits.
“Come on, Anna, maybe you’ll meet a guy,” she says, then she laughs at what is to her, clearly a preposterous thought. Well, I suppose it isn’t terribly
likely.
Although for one fleeting moment, I imagine inviting Matt to that party. Matt surely does not have foot fungus. If I asked him, would he laugh in my
face? No, he certainly wouldn’t. But he’d find a way to decline. A nice way.
“No, thank you,” I say.
I glance up the stairs. Thinking about Matt calmed me for an instant, but Jake’s foot fungus has emerged back in the forefront of my mind.
“God,” Lisa says. “You sure have a lot of cans stacked up in the living room. How can you even walk through the room without knocking them over?”
I’m sure the fungus won’t only be in the bathroom. It will probably be all over the second floor of my house by the time he’s done up there. I’ll have to
sterilize the entire second floor.
A sweat breaks out on the back of my neck and I feel slightly dizzy.
“Excuse me,” I say to Lisa. Before she can say another word, I race up the steps to the bathroom. I find Jake hunched down under my sink, his dirty
box of tools open beside him. The whole scene turns my stomach.
“Jake,” I say tentatively.
My brother-in-law straightens so that he can look over at me. I can already see that his hands are filthy. “Not quite done yet, Anna.”
“Listen,” I say to him. “I need…” I glance down at his big toe, still poking out from within his sock. “You have to cover all your toes.”
Jake frowns at me. “What?”
I take a deep breath. “Your sock is ripped. That’s not… I mean, it’s contaminated.”
He looks down at the big toe of his foot then back up at me. Jake has always been very nice to me, more so than Lisa, but for a moment, I wonder if
he’s contemplating telling me to go fuck myself. I’ve certainly been told that enough times to know when it’s coming.
“What do you want me to do?” Jake finally asks.
That’s a good question.
I end up finding a pillow case in my linen closet and an old silk scarf. We put the pillow case on Jake’s foot and then I make him hold out his ankle so
that I can tie the scarf around it to hold it in place. I’m tying a bow around his ankle when Lisa comes upstairs.
“Anna!” she snaps at me. “What do you think you’re doing?”
I look up at Lisa. She’s got her hands planted on her hips and she’s glowering down at me.
“I don’t want to have fungus spread all over my floor,” I explain.
“Fungus!” Lisa shrieks. “Jake doesn’t have fungus!”
“Actually,” I say, “seventy percent of the population has been infected with tinea pedis at one time or another.”
“My husband does not have foot fungus!” Lisa reaches over and yanks the scarf right out of my hand. “This is out of control, Anna. I mean it. You’ve
got serious mental problems.”
I feel my cheeks grow warm. I know that I’m not perfect, that I obsess over things that I shouldn’t, but to hear my own sister accusing me of having
“serious mental problems” feels like a slap in the face. I don’t have serious mental problems. What does she even mean by that? Does she think I need to be
institutionalized?
Does my sister think I ought to be locked up?
“Don’t get upset, babe,” Jake says in his calm, even voice as he continues to fiddle with my pipes, “it’s not that big a deal. I don’t mind.”
“I mind,” Lisa snaps. “Don’t you see, Jake? You’re just enabling her.”
Enabling me? That doesn’t sound like a term Lisa would come up with on her own. I wonder who she’s been talking with about me.
Lisa glares at me. “If you can’t get your shit under control, then Jake isn’t going to come here and help you anymore. I mean it. You can go hire a
repairman.”
The thought of having a sweaty, greasy stranger coming into my house makes my skin crawl. I’m sure Lisa knows it.
“You need to see a shrink, Anna,” Lisa says to me. Her voice has lowered a notch, but it’s still got that edge to it. “You need to, I don’t know, be on
medications or something. Seriously. You need it really badly.”
I close my eyes, trying to block out my sister’s words. From within the depths of my brain, I retrieve a memory back from when I was a teenager and
my parents sent me to see a psychiatrist. I remember passing another girl my age, who was leaving the doctor while I was coming in. I remember the glazed
look in her eyes.
Distant. Stoned. Drugged.
If Lisa thinks I’m doing that to myself, she’s the one who’s out of her mind.
“I think I got it fixed,” Jake announces as he straightens up. He looks at Lisa and smiles. “Lisa, why don’t you go downstairs while I make sure it’s
working. I should just be another minute.”
Lisa looks between the two of us before she throws up her hands and goes back downstairs. I feel a rush of relief once she’s gone, but the sting of her
words remains.
“Don’t worry.” Jake’s voice is low so that my sister can’t hear him. “I’ll keep coming over when you need me. Just call me directly, okay, Anna?”
I nod. All of a sudden, I feel a strange urge to reach out and give my brother-in-law a hug, dirty hands and all. “Thank you. So much.”
“No problem.”
I squeeze my sweaty fists together as I watch Jake turn the faucet on and off. It’s not leaking anymore. He fixed it.
“Jake, I…” I swallow, not wanting to say the next words but knowing that I have to. That I won’t be able to sleep tonight if I don’t. “Can you tell me
everywhere you stepped with your toe? Please?”
A crease forms between Jake’s eyebrows. “I just… I came right here from the stairs. I didn’t go anywhere else.”
My shoulders sag. I can clean that area. It won’t be too much. It won’t take me the entire rest of the day. “Okay. Thank you.”
Jake gives me one last look before he goes back downstairs to join Lisa.
Chapter 19: Matt
I overslept this morning.
I used to be the kind of person who didn’t even bother with an alarm because I woke up automatically at the same time every day. I never needed much
sleep—six hours was usually more than enough for me.
These days, my eyes are drifting shut at ten o’clock at night, and then I end up oversleeping the next morning because I forgot to set an alarm. I
couldn’t imagine sleeping past seven when I went to bed that early.
Peter gave me a dirty look when he saw me stroll in at well past nine. I’m sure he’d be more understanding if I ‘fessed up about my MS, but that’s not
going to happen. He’s not going to know about it until he has to. And hopefully, that’s never.
I made up some story about an appointment, and I think he bought it. I promised to stay late, so that’s why it’s now nearly six as I make my way out to
the parking garage. My main concern about staying late is that I usually support myself by placing my hands on the hoods of cars, but I can’t do that if
most of the cars are gone. And I was late enough that my car isn’t parked anywhere near the elevators.
When I get out of the elevators, I see that there are a lot of empty spaces in the parking garage. And that’s just fucking great. I can almost hear Kelly’s
voice in my ear:
You should really think about using a cane, Matt.
I’m carefully making my way through the parking garage, and that’s when I see her. Anna Flint. Standing in the middle of the rows of cars. Sobbing.
Okay, this is Anna we’re talking about. Crazy Anna. Who has more cans than a 7-11 stacked in her cubicle. So this is a person who’s always doing
something weird or unexpected. But now she’s crying. I’ve never seen her cry before. I’ve seen her upset or freaking out, but never crying.
Part of me thinks maybe I should get the hell away from her and not get involved in this drama. But most of me knows that I’m going to do whatever I
can to help her.
I make my way over to her, doing my best not to fall. She doesn’t seem to notice me at first, but then when she does, her blue eyes light up. “Matt!”
she cries. “Oh, Matt! Thank God. You’ve got to help me.”
“Uh, sure,” I say. I almost smile. I want to be Anna’s hero. I just hope this doesn’t involve a lot of walking. “What do you need help with?”
“I…” Anna squeezes her eyes shut. “I think I hit someone with my car.”
Holy shit.
My heart pounding, I stare at Anna. “Are you serious?”
She nods. “Yes, but I… I can’t find the… the body.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to sort through my racing thoughts. If Anna hit someone, we need to call 911. But what’s this crap she’s saying about not being
able to find the body? What is she talking about? How could you hit someone and not be able to find the body?
That’s when Kenny, the security guard for the parking garage, ambles over. He’s walking much too slow, considering there was just a car accident. As
he approaches us, he gives me a look. And that’s when I get it. Anna didn’t hit anyone. This is just Anna being Crazy Anna.
“We have to check under the cars, Matt,” Anna tells me through her tears. “That’s the only way we can find the body and get help.”
“Oh,” I say. Because what the hell else am I supposed to say?
“You keep on lookin’ under the cars, Miss Flint,” Kenny says to Anna. “Let me talk to Mr. Harper ‘bout something. Okay?”
Anna nods somewhat reluctantly, but then goes back to the job of tearfully searching under the cars. Kenny steps closer to me and I can smell the
cigarette smoke on his clothes. “She does this ‘bout once a week,” he says in a low voice. “Thinks she hit somebody and then wants to search for them.
Gets really upset over it.”
“Christ,” I mutter.
“That girl’s got problems,” Kenny says. “She needs to get herself a shrink.”
Kenny wanders away and I watch Anna making her way down the row of cars. I know I’m not in any shape to help her, but the thing is, I really want
to. More than I’ve wanted to do anything in a while. And I’m cursing my legs for keeping me from being able to help her.
Eh, fuck it.
“Anna!” I call out.
Anna looks up and self-consciously wipes her tear-stained face. “Yes?”
“I’ll help you look.”
It’s not that bad. I hang onto the trunks of the cars and stoop down to look underneath. And I don’t have to look that carefully, considering I know I’m
not actually going to find an injured pedestrian under there. I think Anna appreciates just the gesture.
Except less than ten minutes into looking, I lose my balance. I stumble a bit, and land ungracefully about five feet away from the nearest car.
So here’s the problem: I can’t get up from the floor anymore. Well, I probably could if I could grab onto the car, but I’m not close enough for that. I
get on my hands and knees and rock back and forth, but I know it’s not going to happen. All I can do at this point is crawl over to the nearest car.
And that’s when I notice Anna is watching me.
I freeze. Christ, this is so freaking embarrassing. I fell in front of her, and now I can’t get up. Again. And now she’s coming over to me. She’s probably
going to watch me as I crawl over to the car and struggle to get back on my feet.
“Here,” she says, holding out her hand to me.
I can’t believe my eyes. Anna, who will not touch anyone, is holding her hand out to me.
I take it. Even with her hand offering support, it’s not easy to get up, but Anna has surprising strength so I make it happen. It’s a relief to be back on
my feet again, but I still don’t feel very steady. I hate this. I fucking hate my legs right now. Walking used to be so easy. I used to not even think about it.
“Thank you,” I say.
We look at each other for a minute. Considering what happened just now, it’s surprisingly not awkward. I feel like I get her. She’s crazy and she
knows it. She knows that there isn’t really an injured pedestrian under one of the cars. But she needs to check anyway.
“I have multiple sclerosis,” I blurt out.
Anna stares at me in surprise. I’m surprised too. Why did I tell her that? I haven’t even told my parents, for Christ’s sake. But also surprisingly, I’m
not sorry I told her. It’s a relief to have finally said those words to another person who wasn’t a medical professional.
“You would probably walk better if you had a cane,” Anna says.
I nod, although her words make me feel insecure. Are other people noticing how badly I’ve been walking? Are they talking about me? Then again, if
they were, they wouldn’t tell Anna. “It’s just…” I mumble. “I don’t want to have…”
Anna points at her car. “There’s a drug store I know that sells medical supplies. Let’s get you one now.”
“Um,” I say. But Anna is already striding toward her car. “Okay. I guess.”
I carefully follow her to her car, and get inside. I notice that she’s just sitting there, gripping the steering wheel, her little hands turning white.
“What?” I say.
She’s quiet for a minute and I get worried something is really wrong. Finally, she says, “You’re the first person besides me who’s ever been in this
car.”
 “Oh,” I say.
She taps on the steering wheel in a rhythmic way, and takes a deep breath. Then she gives me this nervous smile that makes my heart flutter. “I guess
it’s okay,” she says.
Then she starts the car, and off we go.
Chapter 20: Anna
I won’t lie. I’m freaked out that Matt Harper is in my car.
Nobody goes in my car. Ever. Except me, of course, and I know exactly where I’ve been and what I’ve done. I can’t say the same for Matt. In fact, I
know for a fact that only five minutes earlier, he was sprawled over the dirty floor of the parking garage. The floor that car tires have run over multiple
times without being cleaned.
And now I feel a panic attack coming on.
I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself down. I’m gripping the steering wheel so tightly that my fingers tingle. I glance over at Matt, who looks
worried, but despite that, gives me a smile. Matt’s smile calms me down even better than the deep breaths.
I can’t believe that Matt has multiple sclerosis.
He’s so normal. He’s so strong and healthy and happy and attractive. But more than all those things, he’s normal. Normal people don’t have terrible,
degenerative diseases. I can’t wrap my head around it.
At the next light, I notice he’s staring down at his lap, and I wonder if he’s sorry he told me. People don’t tell me secrets. I’ve never been the sort of
person that others feel compelled to confide in. Yet Matt told me when he clearly has not told many people. I wonder if Calvin even knows. Calvin also
does not seem to be the sort of person that others feel compelled to confide in.
Five minutes later, I pull up in front of the drug store. Matt gets out of my car, and I notice for the first time the way he holds onto things as he walks.
He holds onto the hood of my car. He holds onto the shelves in the drug store. He needs support when he walks. But at the same time, I understand why he
doesn’t want to walk around with a cane. As I said, Matt is normal. If he’s a twenty-something-year-old guy who walks with a cane, he won’t be normal
anymore.
We find the canes all the way at the back of the store, tucked away in a corner, which seems to be a ridiculous place to put a device to help people who
can’t walk very well. There is a veritable potpourri of canes hung up on hooks jutting out of the wall—all shapes and colors and sizes. They look more like
golf clubs than canes.
“So what do you think?” I ask him. “Any of the canes catch your fancy?”
“My fancy?” Matt raises his eyebrows at me.
“I mean…” My cheeks feel hot. “Do you like any of these canes?”
Matt is quiet for a minute. “No,” he says finally. “I hate them all.”
I can feel the despair radiating off him. I pluck a pink cane with flowers printed on it and shove it in his direction. “What about this one?”
He stares at me. “It has flowers.”
I shrug. “Flowers are pretty.”
“I’m a guy, Anna,” he says, although a smile touches his lips.
Encouraged, I pull a second cane from the wall. “This one is leopard-printed. You should get this one. It suits you.”
The smile grows slightly wider. “You think I’m a leopard-print kind of guy?”
I nod solemnly. “Or,” I add, fingering another cane, “a graffiti spray kind of guy.”
Matt snorts. “Who do they think is buying these canes anyway? Tween girls?”
My eyes fall on a simple black cane that has a tag that says it folds up. I pluck it off the hook and hold it out to him. “How about this one? It folds up
and it’s black. Is black acceptable to guys?”
Matt looks at the cane long enough that I nearly give up and put it back. After an eternity, he reaches out and takes it from me.
“Yeah, fine,” he says.
“And then you won’t have to worry about falling ever again,” I say in my best cheerful voice.
“For now…” he mutters.
I frown. “Why? Do they think you’ll get much worse?”
“Yeah, sort of.” He looks away so I can’t see his brown eyes. “My doctor told me that in another four years, I probably won’t be able to walk
anymore.”
I gasp. Matt looks up sharply, but I can’t help myself. How could that be? How could he have such a terrible prognosis? I know multiple sclerosis isn’t
all gumdrops and lollipops, but I had no idea there was such a rapid decline. How could it be possible that in only a few years, he’ll lose the ability to walk?
Out of the corner of my eye, I see two wheelchairs pushed up against the wall, next to the display of crutches. It seems impossible that in a few years,
healthy, normal Matt might be confined to one of those chairs. All the time.
No. It can’t be true.
“It won’t happen,” I say confidently. I lift my chin. “I’ll make sure of that.”
“Yeah, okay,” Matt mutters.
He doesn’t believe me. But I know that I can help him.
Chapter 21: Matt
It starts this morning with my landlady Rosie.
She’s out on the lawn in the morning, tending to a small patch of flowers that she lovingly refers to as her “garden.” She’s out there a lot since the
weather has gotten nicer again, and she usually has some remark about how I look cute in my shirt and tie or something along those lines. It’s always
accompanied by a suggestive smile. I’ve also noticed she’s got on an awful lot of makeup for eight in the morning.
Today I come out of the apartment leaning on my cane. Whatever else I can say about that goddamn cane, I definitely feel a lot more stable walking
with it. I don’t feel like I’m about to face-plant every time I take a step anymore. And it’s just a cane—that’s not a big deal. It’s practically trendy. It’s not
like I’m hobbling around with a walker.
Except when Rosie lifts her head to smile at me, I can see her eyes grow wide. I hear her inhale sharply and she is literally at a loss for words. She just
crouches on her lawn, staring at me until I get into my car.
Rosie’s response turns out to be the tip of the iceberg. My inconspicuous cane is not inconspicuous, as it turns out. When I walk into the building at
work, every freaking person in the world is staring at me like I sprouted a second head overnight. I had no idea that it would attract so much attention. I
hate this.
Goddamn fucking cane.
Goddamn fucking legs.
Goddamn fucking MS.
Liz from reception is in the elevator. You know, the girl Calvin thinks has a horse face who wasn’t good enough for me a year ago. She sees the cane
in my hand and her mouth falls open.
“Is… is everything okay, Matt?” she asks.
“My Achilles is acting up,” I say, falling back on my old lie. It’s so much easier than the truth.
“Oh.” Liz is looking down at my ankle and that’s when I notice that my pants leg has gotten snagged with one of the hinges on my brace and it’s
obvious to everyone in the elevator that I’m wearing it. And it doesn’t look like something someone would wear for a sports injury. I know exactly how it
looks. I’m sure all the women on the floor will be gossiping about me by lunchtime.
Well, to hell with them.
By the time the elevator stops on my floor, my stomach is in knots. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I should fold my cane up and just take my
chances walking unassisted. I’ve been doing it this long.
But no. I can’t. Not for much longer. And if I fall, then I’ll really be screwed.
I make my way down the aisle of cubicles, my cane tapping against the ground every few seconds. I’m leaning on it heavily for support every time I
take a step. I feel like I’m fucking eighty years old.
Okay, almost there. Almost to my chair. And then I’m going to leave the goddamn cane in the cubicle for the rest of the day. I can grab on to the sides
of the cubicles if I need to get anywhere. That’s been working out for me fine this long.
Of course, three cubicles away from my own, I run into Calvin, who is racing down the aisle, holding a stack of papers. I remember when I used to be
able to race places. His eyes get wide when he sees me. He looks like he’s about to drop the papers everywhere.
“Matt,” he says. “What the fuck?”
“Oh.” I look down at my cane and give my best don’t-care shrug. “My Achilles is acting up again. I think it’s the rain.”
Calvin frowns. “It’s not raining.”
“Yeah, but it’s going to rain. I think.”
Cal looks at me, just shaking his head. “You need to see a doctor, man. Really.”
“I’m fine,” I insist. “I’m getting better.”
“The fuck you are,” Calvin snaps. “You’re getting worse. You think I haven’t noticed you limping around? And now you show up with a fucking
cane?”
He noticed me limping. Everyone noticed. I’m not fooling anyone.
“It’s not a big deal,” I say weakly.
“Matt…” His brows knit together. “I mean, what if something is wrong? Like, really wrong? You need to see someone.”
“Come on, Cal…”
“No, I mean it,” he says. “Matt, you’re my best buddy. I’m worried about you. I mean, how the fuck would I hit on girls without my wingman?”
That’s about as sentimental as I’ve ever seen Calvin get. I need to put a stop to this conversation before we start hugging or some shit like that.
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll find a doctor.”
And then I’ll tell you I went to the doctor and he said that I was fine. Because I’m not ready to share this secret with you yet, Cal. You just wouldn’t
understand.
Chapter 22: Anna
I felt terrible for Matt today.
I noticed that he abandoned his cane under his desk while he was at work, but everyone already saw him using it on the way in. I could see the way
everyone was staring at him, wondering what was going on.
I have to pick up some pages that printed to the copy machine during the afternoon, and I see two of the women in reception, Liz and Heidi, talking in
hushed voices at the water cooler. When I hear Matt’s name whispered, I linger at the printer, waiting to hear more.
“…Something’s definitely going on with him,” Liz whispers to Heidi. I remember the way Liz used to hang on Matt’s every word, making goo-goo
eyes at him. “I’ve noticed him limping for a long time now.”
“Me too,” Heidi says. “Everyone has.”
“I heard he has Parkinson’s disease,” Liz murmurs. “Do you think that’s true?”
“John said he heard Lou Gehrig’s disease.”
“Oh my God. Isn’t that the one where you end up not being able to move anything on your whole body?”
Heidi nods gravely.
Liz looks almost like she might cry. “Poor Matt. He’s such a sweet guy.”
Heidi raises her eyebrows at Liz. “Maybe you should reach out to him? You were always so into him, weren’t you?”
“No, I…”
I don’t wait to hear Liz’s excuses. I’ve heard enough of this conversation. None of the people in Matt’s so-called friends truly care about him. It almost
makes me glad that I don’t have any friends.
The only exception is Calvin. Whatever other bad things I can say about Calvin Fitzgerald and there are many, he seemed genuinely concerned when
Matt showed up with that cane. I heard him demanding that Matt go see a doctor, because it’s clear that Matt hasn’t told his “best friend” the truth.
Tonight I pray for Matt.
I’m not a religious person. When I pray, it’s not to God exactly. It’s more to an unnamed entity that controls the fates of the universe.
I touch each shoulder eleven times, then I touch my chest eleven times, then I touch my forehead eleven times. Then I chant eleven times: “Matthew
Harper will not lose the ability to walk.” Then I sit in silence for eleven minutes.
If I am able to do this 121 times without any mistakes, then Matt will be okay. His prognosis will not become a reality.
I will save him.
Year Three
Chapter 23: Matt
I think I’m going to vomit.
I really do. I’ve got this awful, queasy feeling in my gut. I feel lightheaded, like there’s a chance I could pass out. Good thing I’m sitting.
“It’s not that bad, Matt,” Kelly, my physical therapist, says to me. “Geez, you look like you’re going to throw up or something.”
“No,” I say, aware that my voice sounds choked. “I can’t wear that.”
Kelly sighs and puts down the Knee Ankle Foot Orthosis she had been holding up. I started another course of therapy last month because I told Dr.
Dunne I felt unsteady again. Kelly’s first suggestion was to try a Knee Ankle Foot Orthosis (KAFO) after I told her my knee had been buckling under me.
Last week, I let her measure me for it. And now this… monstrosity.
“Fine,” Kelly says. “Don’t wear it. I’ll have them measure you for a wheelchair instead.”
I glare at her. Bitch. It’s easy for her to threaten me—she doesn’t have to walk around with that fucking thing strapped to her leg.
“Just try it, Matt,” she says. “Try it and see how it feels. If you hate it, I won’t bother you anymore.”
I doubt it, but fine. I let her remove my AFO, and put on the KAFO. Unlike the AFO, which I could wear without anyone knowing, the KAFO has to
go on over my pants. It straps across my ankle, just above my knee, and across my thigh. There’s a rigid hinge at my ankle, and a hinge that bends at the
knee.
To say that I hate it would be a gross understatement.
“Give it a try,” Kelly says. She hands me a cane that’s not my cane, but one with four prongs at the base. It’s something new—another aide to help me
walk better.
And I have to admit, it feels much better walking with the KAFO and the new cane. Considering I had a scary fall last week, the extra stability is
appreciated. I don’t feel like I’m going to fall, for a change. The knee hinge takes getting used to though. It locks automatically when I put weight on that
leg, then unlocks to allow me to swing my leg forward.
“It’s a stance-control brace,” Kelly explains. She grins at me. “You like it, don’t you?”
I do, dammit.
“Keep it,” Kelly says. Before I can protest, she says, “You don’t have to wear it, but at least have it. Just in case.”
So here’s the worst part: I end up wearing the brace out of there. I’m addicted to the extra support it gives me. And maybe it doesn’t look that bad. The
brace is dark in color and if I wear it with dark pants, maybe it won’t look so bad. Or I can buy pants baggy enough that it will fit underneath.
I drive home, although that’s something that’s also become more difficult recently. Working the pedals with my foot was hard enough when I couldn’t
move or feel my foot, but now that my knee is weak, I’m genuinely getting nervous. I know what I need is a car with hand controls, but like everything
else, I’m reluctant to make the switch.
When I park in front of the house, the sun is just setting. Rosie is sitting on the porch, a bottle of beer in her hand, just staring up at the sky. I sit in my
car for a minute, trying to decide if I should swap out the KAFO I’m wearing for my usual, less conspicuous brace. Rosie still doesn’t know that I have
MS, nor does anyone else besides my doctors and therapists and Anna Flint. Even my parents still don’t know.
Eh, the hell with it. She’s going to see the brace eventually.
I get out of the car, having to pull my legs out using my arms, which is the norm lately. I grab my new cane, the one with four prongs, and I pull
myself into a standing position. Rosie sees me and her eyes widen. She puts down her bottle of beer.
Please don’t come over here. Please don’t come over here.
Shit. She’s coming over here.
“Matt,” she says as she wipes her hands on her jeans. The tight tank top she’s wearing reminds me of the fact that I haven’t slept with a woman in a
year. Hell, I haven’t kissed a woman in a year. Not since I got that goddamn cane. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “I’m fine.”
Her eyes flicker down to my legs. To my new cane. “I can help you get the door open.”
“I’m fine,” I say again.
“Let me help you,” she says.
So I let her. She opens the door to my apartment for me, and then follows me inside. I want to be alone right now—the last thing I want is Rosie
fussing over me, but I just don’t have it in me to tell her to get lost.
“You sit down,” she tells me. “I’ll make you dinner.”
“You don’t have to,” I insist.
But Rosie isn’t listening. She goes to the kitchen and starts making up some spaghetti and pasta sauce, which is basically the only thing you can make
with stuff I’ve got in the house. While she cooks, she puts on some music on her phone—lots of eighties songs. If this had all been happening two years
ago, I would have assumed this was all leading up to a one-night stand, but considering she just saw me hobbling out of my car, I’m guessing this is her
mothering me. I take this opportunity to pull off my KAFO.
After about twenty minutes, Rosie emerges from the kitchen with two plates heaping with spaghetti. Despite my protests, it’s actually nice that I don’t
have to cook tonight.
“Dig in,” she says. “You need your strength. That’s what my mother always said to me. ‘Eat up, Rosie. You need your strength.’”
I laugh at the thick Brooklyn accent she put on to imitate her mother. “Sounds like my mother,” I say.
“No, I doubt it,” she says. “There’s nothing like Italian mothers. I doubt you got one drop of Guido blood in you, Mr. Harper. American as apple pie.”
I shrug. “My mother definitely has her moments.”
Rosie takes a bite of spaghetti and chews for a long minute. “So. You going to tell me what’s going on with you, Matt? You sick or what?”
“I’m fine,” I say for what feels like the millionth time.
“Well,” she says thoughtfully as she looks me up and down. “That part’s true. Even with all you got going on, you are still pretty fine.”
I laugh, but then I notice that Rosie isn’t laughing along with me. She’s just sitting there, her big tits squeezed into a tank top that a middle-aged
woman probably shouldn’t be wearing, but you know what? She looks great in it. And she fills out her jeans perfectly. Her body is just as good as any girl
that Cal hits on at the bar.
Rosie leans forward and then she kisses me before I have a chance to wipe spaghetti sauce from my mouth. I haven’t kissed a woman in so long that I
honestly forgot how great it feels. I forgot how soft a woman’s lips could be. Just her tongue in my mouth makes my whole body tingle.
A second later, we’re pulling each other’s clothes off. I’m still wearing my dress shirt from work, and Rosie undoes a few buttons then yanks the rest
of it off. I pull off her tank top and get her lacy black bra open with only a few seconds of fumbling. With her shirt off, the differences between Rosie and a
twenty-year-old become more marked—her breasts sag and her skin is loose and floppy. But at this moment, she’s the most goddamn beautiful woman I’ve
ever been with.
I’m still wearing the AFO on my left ankle and I’ve got to get the damn thing off to remove my pants. Our lips part so that Rosie can get her jeans off,
but I also need to lift my pants leg up and unstrap the Velcro of my AFO before I pull it off completely. Rosie watches me do it, her eyes narrowing.
“The hell you’re fine,” she says. “What is it? Cerebral palsy?”
 “Cerebral palsy is something you’re born with,” I mumble.
“So you weren’t always disabled?” Rosie asks.
Her words hit me like a punch in the stomach and my hard-on dies an instant death. So you weren’t always disabled? At first I’m not sure what it is
about her words that upset me so much. Then it hits me. It’s because she called me disabled in such a matter-of-fact way. As if I’m obviously disabled.
That’s not a point up for debate. Even though I don’t think of myself that way. At all. I mean, I can still walk.
“This is a mistake,” I mutter.
Rosie raises her eyebrows. “What? Why? I still want to do it.”
I button up one of the remaining buttons on my shirt that Rosie didn’t rip off. “I just… I don’t think it’s a good idea.
She bites her lip. “I don’t mind that you got those things on your legs. I’ll still fuck you.”
I shake my head. I can’t get these shitty thoughts out of my head now: that I’m disabled, that this is a pity fuck, that I don’t even like Rosie all that
much. There’s no way I’m going to be able to get it up when I’m feeling like this. On top of everything else, that would be humiliating as hell. And she’s
my landlady—I’d have to see her all the time.
Rosie sighs. She doesn’t seem angry, at least. “All right,” she says as she pulls her tank top back over her head. “But just so you know, if you ever
change your mind, I’m still game.”
“Yeah.” I run a hand through my disheveled hair. I’ll never call her. If I ever get that desperate, I’ll probably have gotten to the point where it really
would be a pity fuck. And I don’t want that. I’ve still got some dignity left.
Chapter 24: Anna
I have always been successful in academics.
I was the salutatorian at my high school. I was captain of the math team and got a gold medal in the high school Computer Science Olympiad. I went
to CalTech for undergraduate and graduated summa cum laude with a bachelor’s in computer science. I subsequently earned my Master’s degree in
computer science taking night classes. I earn an excellent living as a computer programmer and have recently purchased my own home.
My older sister Lisa nearly flunked out of high school. She dropped out of community college and became a waitress. She married a mechanic, and
they have a horribly behaved son together.
Would you hazard a guess which daughter is my parents’ favorite? I’ll give you a hint. Her name does not rhyme with “banana.”
So when I see my mother’s name flash on my cell phone screen, I’m tempted to ignore the call. Nothing good can come out of speaking with my
mother. But I’ve ignored her last three calls, so the guilt overcomes me and I answer the phone. I already know I’ll be sorry.
“Anna!” Mother says. She sounds surprised to hear my voice. “You answered the phone.”
My mother enjoys stating the obvious. “Yes,” I say.
“I was going to leave a message.” She still sounds flummoxed that I picked up the phone. Needless to say, my mother and I are not close. We don’t
have two-hour-long conversations the way that she does with Lisa. I can’t even imagine what the two of them talk about for so long. Our conversations
generally just involve exchanging the requisite information. “How are you doing, Anna?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “How are you?”
“The arthritis in my wrist is acting up a little,” she begins, but then clearly senses that I don’t want to hear any more, and says, “How is work?”
“Fine,” I say.
So we’ve exchanged the necessary information. I’ve informed her that work is fine and that I’m generally fine. I’ve done my daughterly duty. This
conversation can end.
“Listen,” Mother says. “Lisa, Jake, and Jayden are coming over on Saturday night for dinner. We were hoping you would join us.”
I inhale deeply. I have dinner with my parents on the second Sunday of even months. (An even month would be February, April, June, etc.) It is not
currently an even month. And Saturday is not Sunday. This is not our routine at all, and the thought of having to spend an extra evening with my parents
and especially with Lisa and especially with her little monster of a son makes me fly into a panic.
“I can’t make it,” I say.
“Why?” Mother presses me.
“I have plans.” I don’t have plans.
“What are you doing? I know you don’t have a date.”
I stare at my phone, struggling to come up with a valid excuse. Maybe I should invent a boyfriend. That would get my mother off my back for at least
a few months, until she insisted on meeting the man, at which point I would have to stage a tearful break-up. But I suspect this is more trouble than it’s
worth.
“Fine,” I grumble. “I’ll come.”
One evening. How bad could it be?
Chapter 25: Matt
After Rosie leaves my apartment, I sit on the couch a long time, eating spaghetti and staring at the wall. I turn on the television at some point, but I can’t
focus on any television show. I just keep staring down at the KAFO that I abandoned on the floor, wondering if I need it or if I can work up the nerve to
actually wear it.
It’s so much easier walking with my new brace. What looks worse—to be wearing a brace or to be practically falling over with each step?
Eventually I shut off the television and strap the braces back on my legs, then I grab my new cane. There’s a full length mirror attached to the back of
the bathroom door. I hobble over to the bathroom, just to take a look. Maybe it’s not as bad as I think.
Fuck.
It’s as bad as I think.
No wonder Rosie labeled me as disabled. That’s how I look. When I look at myself in the mirror right now… there’s no other thought that comes into
my mind. I look like a man with a significant disability. I look like a cripple.
Fuck.
I walk over to my bed and plop down on it, because I don’t sit gracefully anymore. I can’t wear this goddamn brace. I’ve barely had a date in the last
year, but this brace will be the end of my dating life. The actual end. No girl will ever go out with me if I look like this. Maybe someone like Rosie would
throw me a bone every once in a while, but I’ll never get an actual date.
I bury my face in my hands. When Dr. Dunne gave me the diagnosis of MS two years ago, I never believed it would come to this. I never thought I
would keep getting weaker. I thought he was full of shit. But he was exactly right.
And then I think about his prediction:
I’d be very surprised if you’re still able to walk in five years from now.
I can still walk now, but without my braces, I can’t. Even holding on to stuff. My legs don’t support me anymore if I’m not wearing braces on both of
them. It’s only been two years, but I can already see his prediction coming true.
This is so fucking frustrating. I want to slam my fist into the wall, but it wouldn’t do me any favors to break the wall (or worse, my hand). Why the
hell did this have to happen to me? Everyone else in the whole goddamn world can walk without even thinking about it. They have no clue how lucky they
are.
And then my cell rings. It’s my mother. Shit.
Here’s the thing: my mother knows my ankles are “a problem.” I’ve been going with the Achilles lie. I have a feeling they don’t believe it, and my
mom keeps saying I need to go to another doctor and get a second opinion. Luckily, my older sister Erin just had a baby, so that’s been eating up a lot of
their attention. That and the fact that I live an hour drive away from them (and my parents hate to drive) means I’ve managed to avoid them seeing me for
six whole months.
Obviously, they’re going to find out eventually. I can’t hide this anymore. But I still dread the conversation.
I finally answer the phone because I know my mom and she’ll just keep calling until someone picks up. “Hey, Mom,” I say.
“Matt!” she says. “Where have you been?”
“Working,” I say. And coming straight home after work to watch TV for five hours. “It’s been pretty busy.”
“Well, you need to see Haley,” Mom says. “Don’t you want to meet your niece?”
I don’t. I don’t have even the slightest desire to see this baby. Sorry if that makes me an unfeeling asshole. My sister Erin and I have never been close.
She’s this ultra-liberal feminist who gave birth at home in some crazy water bath, and I’m (apparently) a misogynistic jackass. So we don’t get along—we
never have and we never will.
“I guess,” I say.
“You’re coming over for dinner this weekend,” Mom declares. “Erin will be bringing Haley, and we’ll all eat as a family.” When I hesitate, she says,
“Please, Matty, we haven’t seen you in such a long time. I miss you so much.”
Whenever my mother calls me “Matty,” it makes me feel like I’m about five years old again. I hate it.
“Fine,” I grumble.
Maybe they won’t notice I can barely walk.
Chapter 26: Anna
Of all the people I work with, the one I find most distasteful is Calvin Fitzgerald.
Calvin is, I suppose, handsome. In a conventional sort of way. That’s what all the women in the office think, anyway. They are all in love with Calvin,
who does not actually deserve to have anyone love him. They love his thick sun-streaked blond hair, the cleft in his chin, and the muscles in his chest and
shoulders, even though it’s plain to anyone who gets to know him that he’s a jerk.
Calvin is a computer programmer, but he is terrible. Peter is always handing me Calvin’s code and asking me to fix it. He’s got a SQL textbook on his
desk that he consults with alarming frequency, even though any programmer worth his salt should know SQL backwards and forwards. His code is sloppy
and poorly commented. It’s like he took a few computer science courses in college as a lark, then stumbled into this job without knowing what he’s doing.
And he’s not smart or motivated enough to learn.
It baffles me that Matt would be friends with Calvin. They both started working at the company at the exact same time and went through orientation
together, and I suppose that was the bond that drew them together. I think Matt liked the extra attention he got from women thanks to hanging around with
Calvin, although I’ve noticed recently that Matt doesn’t leave the office with Calvin on Friday nights much anymore since he got the cane.
A few days ago, Peter assigned me to be the lead on a new project. It involves putting together software to control a large database at a growing
company. I know Peter gave me the project because I’m the best programmer at the company. He’ll admit that in the moments when he’s not furious with
me about my cans. But I’m dismayed to discover that the team he’s given me includes Calvin.
I try to work around it. I distribute the work via email, and assign Calvin tasks that he cannot screw up. Basically, it’s like working with an intern on
the team.
I had believed and hoped that maybe Calvin wouldn’t even notice the inferior assignment that I’d given him. Or perhaps he’d be relieved to relinquish
any real responsibilities, considering he must be aware that he’s a terrible programmer.
But no. Fifteen minutes into the work day, Calvin is at the entrance to my cubicle, his face red underneath his perfect tan. I brace myself, knowing that
I can’t give in. After all, any work I assign to Calvin will just be work I’ll have to redo myself and I won’t be able to complete the project on schedule if I
have to take on a double workload.
“What the fuck, Anna?” Calvin snaps at me. “I saw your email.”
“That’s the distribution of the work,” I say calmly. “I tried to do it as fairly as possible.”
“This is bullshit,” Calvin says. “You’re giving me all the shit work.”
Yes. That is true. I’m giving you the work that you deserve.
He’s edging into my cubicle and it’s getting me nervous. I tap my finger against one of my cans eleven times. It calms me slightly. “I’m giving you the
work I think you’ll do best.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Every piece of this project is important,” I say. “Peter put me in charge and—”
“Yeah, and he must have been out of his mind,” Calvin snaps. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
I raise my chin. “I believe I do.”
“You’re crazy,” he says. “You shouldn’t be working anywhere. You ought to be fired for having all these cans in here.”
I wince like he slapped me. There’s a part of me that’s scared he might be right. There are bad days when I spend a large part of my work hours in the
bathroom washing my hands and I know that if things get any worse, my performance might suffer. Nobody is going to hire an employee who is going to
spend half her day in the bathroom.
I try not to let Calvin see that he got to me. I keep my head held high, and say, “Peter doesn’t think so.”
Of course, Calvin will never give up. I can almost see the wheels turning in his little brain. He edges closer into my cubicle and I back up as far as I
can go. He knows I hate that. He does it specifically to torment me.
“What if I refuse to do it?” he says.
My heart is pounding in my chest. I feel sweat breaking out in my forehead as Calvin takes another step forward. I’m cornered. I want Calvin to get
out of my cubicle. I need Calvin to get out of my cubicle. I need him to get out of here. Right. Now.
And that’s when I see Matt walking by. Matt. Please help me. Help me.
Chapter 27: Matt
I stuff the KAFO in my closet and don’t wear it to work the next day. I refuse to look at it as an inevitability. Yes, I have declined in the last two years, but
that doesn’t mean I’ll continue to get worse. Kelly and I have been working on my balance, and I’m fine with just my AFOs. I do compromise and use the
more supportive cane with the four prongs. At least I can stash that away if I need to.
When I get to work and have nearly reached my cubicle, I see Calvin standing outside Anna’s cubicle, looking pissed off. I can tell he’s angry by the
way his ears are bright red and the veins are standing out on his neck. He’s talking to her in an angry, hushed voice, one that he seems to reserve primarily
for Anna.
“You’re crazy,” Calvin is saying to her. “You shouldn’t be working anywhere. You ought to be fired for having all these cans in here.”
Anna is standing in her cubicle and I can tell that Cal’s comment has hit home. Her face is calm, but I can see her tapping furiously on her knee, her
cans, and everywhere. She’s like some kind of crazy tapping machine. “Peter doesn’t think so,” she says, although her voice is trembling.
I don’t blame her for feeling wounded by his comment. Anna might be the smartest person I’ve ever met and she’s definitely the best programmer
we’ve got, but she’s got issues. Issues as bad or worse than my own.
Calvin is edging into her cubicle. I know that’s his strategy to intimidate her. And it works really, really well. She looks like a trapped animal, her eyes
darting everywhere, looking for an escape.
“What if I refuse to do it?” Calvin says. He sticks his face closer to hers and she looks straight up terrified. I feel my hand ball into a fist—Cal might be
my best friend, but right now, I want to punch him in the nose.
“I… I’ll just talk to Peter then,” she says.
Calvin looks infuriated by her response. He looks like he might do something crazy, like, I don’t know, hit her. I know I can’t punch Calvin in the face,
but I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to rescue her. So I step up and say loudly, “Anna, I need to talk to you.”
Calvin whirls around, startled by the sound of my voice. His eyes widen when he sees my new cane. It throws him off enough that he doesn’t look so
angry anymore.
“Hey, Matt…” He narrows his eyes at me. “What’s going on?”
“Just an issue I need to discuss with Anna.”
Cal looks between the two of us, obviously not sure what to do. Finally, he kicks a can angrily, knocking it over, before he stalks away. The can rolls
across the floor for a second before Anna snatches it up. Baked beans.
I don’t enter Anna’s cubicle. For starters, you almost can’t. The can situation is getting worse. It’s really, really bad. I haven’t counted them, but
they’re definitely starting to encroach on her work station. I heard Peter talk to her about them, but they haven’t budged.
Also, I notice that Anna doesn’t like people entering her cubicle. Whenever anyone does, I can hear her tapping and hyperventilating. Sometimes she
races off right after someone talks to her, and spends the next half hour in the bathroom, doing who the hell knows what.
“Thank you, Matt,” she says to me.
“You’re welcome.”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t want to say it to him, but Calvin isn’t a very good programmer. He always messes everything up. I don’t find his work
up to par. That’s why I gave him the shit work.”
I smile at her. “I don’t blame you.” And I don’t. If I were in charge of a project with Calvin, I’d be tempted to give him the shit work too. He’s a
terrible programmer. He still sends me a lot of his code to correct.
“I wouldn’t give you shit work,” Anna says to me. “I mean, if you and I were working together and I were in charge. You’re good at your job.”
“Thanks,” I say. “But I’m not as good as you are.”
“That’s true,” Anna says so matter-of-factly that I laugh.
It’s the first time I’ve laughed since Kelly showed me that stupid KAFO.
She looks down at my four-pronged quad cane. “You got a new cane.”
“Yeah…” If she noticed that my gait was a lot worse recently, she hasn’t said anything. I’m glad. I don’t need comments like that.
“I should get back to work,” Anna announces. “We’re not supposed to be socializing during working hours.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I’ll stop socializing with you.”
There’s part of me that considers asking her if she’d like to join me for lunch so that we could socialize further. But that’s probably not a good idea for
many reasons.
Chapter 28: Anna
I show up at my parents’ house at six o’clock on the dot. I told my mother that I will not be staying past eight. That is the absolute limit. She responded by
asking me to wear makeup.
The makeup comment sits heavily in my stomach when I pull up on the street next to my parents’ house and find an unfamiliar car parked next to my
brother-in-law’s truck. Who is here? Could the car belong to a guest of our neighbor? But my intuition tells me that it does not.
I consider turning around and driving home.
Ultimately, I decide to get out of the car. If there’s an unfamiliar person in the house, I will simply endure it. Perhaps it will divert some of the
attention away from me.
The second my mother opens the door to the house, I know that I have absolutely made the wrong decision. I can tell from the look on Mother’s face
that the person in the house is not simply an extra guest. This is a matchmaking endeavor.
“Anna.” Mother smiles at me, inspecting my face and my clothing. I am wearing plain, straight-leg black slacks and a white blouse. “You didn’t wear
makeup.”
“I’m not slopping gunk on my face,” I say.
“You could have worn a skirt.”
I very rarely wear skirts. She knows that as well as she knows that I don’t wear makeup.
I step into my parents’ home. I hear my three-year-old nephew Jayden in the living room and that immediately sets my nerves on edge. Children make
me incredibly anxious. Jayden especially always seems to have a runny nose that Lisa will wipe with a tissue, then not even clean her own hands. She just
shoves the tissue into her purse and it’s done with. His fingers are chronically sticky with glue or syrup or some unidentified substance, yet nobody seems
concerned enough to wash them.
Also, I heard that pertussis is spreading in epidemic proportions in this area, and I know that Jayden is in daycare. He could most certainly be a vector
for pertussis.
Jayden is playing with some blocks on the floor with his father, and he looks up when I walk into the living room, but doesn’t seem all that interested
in me, which is a relief. In the past, he has run over to hug me, and I had to later throw out all the clothes I had been wearing after I saw Jayden eating a
lollipop he picked up directly from the sidewalk.
“Hi, Anna,” my brother-in-law Jake says without getting up. Since the incident with the foot fungus, he’s been to my house about half a dozen times to
fix various things. I doubt Lisa is aware of this, and we’ve mutually agreed not to inform her. “I brought one of my friends from poker. This is Tom.”
I spot the man sitting on my parents’ armchair. He scrambles to his feet and Jake nods in my direction. “Tom, this is Anna. I told you she was hot,
didn’t I?”
Tom looks mildly embarrassed by Jake’s comment, which I appreciate. He’s on the short side, with thick black hair and eyes set so far apart that it
throws me off. He’s not terribly unattractive, I suppose. But I like Matt better.
“It’s nice to meet you, Anna,” Tom says as he thrusts his hand in my direction. My mother is beaming at us from a few feet away.
I look down at Tom’s palm. I can practically see the sweat crystals glimmering in the creases. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t shake hands.”
Tom looks befuddled. I hear Jake give a chuckle.
“It’s nothing personal,” I explain to Tom. “However, it’s been proven at least a quarter of people don’t wash their hands after using the toilet. And
while it’s more likely you washed your hands than you didn’t, I don’t care to take that chance. After all, even if you washed your hands, how do I know
you didn’t shake hands with one of those 25% who didn’t?” It’s the same explanation I gave to the vice president of our company several months ago,
which admittedly was not well received.
Tom just stares at me for a second until my mother cries out, “For God’s sake, Anna, shake his hand!”
“It’s nothing personal,” I tell Tom again.
“Yes,” he murmurs. “That’s… okay.”
I flash my mother a triumphant look. Our guest has agreed, albeit reluctantly, that I don’t need to shake his hand. Maybe he isn’t so bad. Maybe he gets
me.
Chapter 29: Matt
Because I can’t think of an excuse to get out of it, I drive to my parents’ house on Saturday night. I just wear my AFOs, and I leave my cane in the car,
because it will attract too many questions. Last time I saw them, I left it behind. My parents have two stairs to get to their front door, but there’s a railing,
so I think it will be fine. Inside the house, I’ll just hold onto the furniture when I walk.
Unfortunately, the second I start walking from my car to the front door, I realize how completely reliant I’ve become on my cane. It’s hard to make it
to the front door without that support. I have to walk very, very slowly. At some point, I’m tempted to drop down to the ground and crawl there.
Almost there. You can do it, Matt. Just a little bit farther.
I feel like I’ve just run a freaking marathon by the time I get to the front door. By some miracle, I’m still on my feet. Despite everything, I’d go back
and get my cane now if it were possible.
My mother answers the door, looking flustered. She’s behind on dyeing her hair, and I can see lots of gray roots, which makes her seem scarily old.
But she looks so ridiculously happy to see me. Sometimes I don’t understand why my parents like me so much. It’s not like I’ve been a great son. I didn’t
even come by for Mother’s Day. I just sent some flowers I bought online.
“Matt!” she cries. And she hugs me, while I grab onto the door frame to keep from falling. “Oh my gosh, it’s so wonderful to see you. I missed you so
much! You look so handsome!”
“Thank you,” I mumble, because what are you supposed to do when your mother tells you that you’re handsome, aside from get embarrassed?
I follow her into the house. I’d forgotten that they have that rug in the foyer, and after all my careful work outside, my foot snags on that stupid rug,
and I’m down. I fall spectacularly right in the foyer of my parents’ home, right in front of my mother. Who screams.
“Matt!” she yelps, crouching down next to me. “Oh my God, what happened? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly.
Well, I’m not exactly fine. I’m not injured or anything, at least (I’ve become the master of falling), but I don’t think I can get up so easily. There’s
nothing for me to grab onto here, except the wall. And I don’t have my cane. So if I want to get up on my own, I’d have to crawl over to the living room,
and use the couch to help me. I have to admit that in my own home, I do sometimes resort to either crawling or scooching on my ass.
Thanks to my mother’s scream, everyone comes into the living room. It’s my father, my sister Erin, and her husband Steve. Dad holds out his hand to
me, and I’m able to push myself back up into a standing position.
“What happened there, Matt?” Dad says as he claps me on the back, nearly knocking me down again. That would be epic. “Drunk already?”
I smile weakly. “Just tripped on the carpet.”
Erin is looking at me with a weird expression on her face. She’s three years older than I am, and like I said, we’ve never been close. To put it mildly. I
haven’t seen her in about two years, and she’s put on quite a bit of weight. Maybe twenty pounds since I last saw her—then again, she’s just had a baby. I’d
probably use that as ammunition to give her a hard time if she started bugging me, but right now, after face-planting on my parents’ carpet, I don’t feel like
throwing stones.
“Hey, Matt,” Erin says like we don’t dislike each other. “Long time no see. You remember Steve, right?”
“Sure,” I say. I shake hands with the loser that my sister married about five years ago. They wrote their own vows. It was painful. That was the day
that I knew that my sister and I were never going to be friends like other siblings are. We were just too completely different.
“Would you like to meet Haley?” she asks.
“Absolutely.” Not.
But I follow my sister into the living room to pretend to be excited about the new baby. This is going to be a longass evening.
Chapter 30: Anna
Tom is trying. I have to give him that. He’s trying to talk to me, trying to find common interests for us to discuss. But with every word that comes out of
his mouth, I like him less. He’s apparently some sort of manager at the 7-11 next to the shop where Jake works. He has never heard of SQL or Java and I’m
sure anything I said about what I do would be of absolutely no interest to him. Just as everything he says is of absolutely no interest to me. We have
nothing in common. Also, he didn’t wash his hands prior to eating, which upset me immensely—it took all my self-restraint not to say anything.
I suppose it doesn’t help that I have no physical attraction to Tom whatsoever. His eyes are just too far apart. It makes him look like… a fish or some
other sea creature. I think of Matt’s kind brown eyes and feel wistful. If Matt had tried to shake my hand, I’d have taken it. I’m sure I would have.
“It stinks that DVDs are going out of style,” Tom is saying. I don’t know what he’s talking about. How could DVDs go out of style? They’re still a
good way of imprinting data. “I spent the last decade putting together the ultimate movie collection. Now what am I supposed to do with my collection?”
Lisa and my mother are looking at me like I should say something. So I say, “I have a collection too.”
That might have been the wrong thing to say. Mother looks like she’s going to have a stroke. “Anna, would you like seconds on your chicken?”
“No, thank you,” I say. “It was dry.”
“What do you collect, Anna?” Tom asks me eagerly.
“I collect cans,” I tell him.
Tom looks at me blankly, so I elaborate: “I mostly collect cans of vegetables from the supermarket, but I do have some more exotic cans. My favorite
is a can of spiced alligator. I found that in a store in Chinatown. Although I didn’t think alligator was Chinese.” Tom is still not saying anything, so I
continue. “I’ve got 98 cans in my house right now, but I’m aiming to have 121. Now that I’ve got nearly a hundred cans, I feel like I have to be pickier. But
if a can calls out to me, I won’t say no to it.”
“Right,” Tom says.
“I have a collection at work too,” I add. “That one is smaller, because I have to keep all the cans in my cubicle. I used to have twenty-one cans, but two
of them got dented so I had to throw them away. One of my favorite cans, which was asparagus, was one of the dented ones, so that was a hard decision to
get rid of it. But I don’t like the dented cans.”
Tom suddenly seems very interested in the food on his plate. I want to tell him more about the cans, but I feel Lisa poking me in the shoulder. “Anna,”
she hisses in my ear. “I need your help in the kitchen.”
I glance at my watch. I’ve got nearly forty-five minutes left till I can leave. May as well kill a few minutes in the kitchen.
I follow Lisa into the kitchen, but it becomes obvious that she doesn’t actually need help. She wants to yell at me. I can tell by the way she folds her
arms across her chest.
“Anna,” she says. “You can’t talk to Tom about your can collection.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” Lisa’s blue eyes are blazing. “Because it makes you sound nuts. And we’re trying to keep him from figuring that out.”
I shrug.
Lisa’s shoulders sag. “Anna, seriously, will you please try? Tom actually seems to like you. Do you want to be alone forever?”
I think of Matt for what seems like the millionth time tonight. I remember how he came in and saved me from Calvin when he was threatening me. I
imagine his cute smile. I know he thinks that walking with a cane has made him less attractive to women, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s only gotten
more attractive.
He’s the only man that I can think about. If I’m not with him, I’d rather be alone.
“I don’t care,” I answer honestly.
Lisa stares at me for a minute, then shakes her head. “You never went to see a psychiatrist, did you?” When I don’t answer, she says, “Why am I not
surprised?”
Lisa has not had one single moment of achievement in her entire life, compared with my stacks of medals and diplomas. Yet she’s the normal one
somehow. What’s sad is that there isn’t a person in this house who would disagree.
Chapter 31: Matt
Erin makes me hold baby Haley. She’s cute enough, I guess. She’s lighter than I thought she’d be. I mean, obviously I know that babies are tiny, but she
feels like she weighs as much as a piece of paper. But I don’t know if I necessarily have any uncle-like feelings toward her. I like kids, but I don’t get that
excited over them. I used to think I’d have some of my own someday, but now I’m not so sure. I can’t even get a date, much less a wife.
In any case, I’m grateful when my mother says dinner is ready, and I can hand the baby back over to Erin.
It’s about thirty feet from the couch in the living room to the dining table with nothing to grab onto and no cane to rely on. Thirty feet that I take very,
very carefully, because there’s carpeting and I don’t want to fall again. If I fall again, my mother will probably have a stroke. I need to make it to the dining
table without incident.
That said, everyone clearly notices how careful I’m being and how I’m holding onto the wall. I’m not fooling anyone.
So after we spend the requisite ten minutes discussing how wonderful Haley is as we eat our salads, my dad finally says, “Matt, your Achilles is still
bothering you, huh?”
“Yeah,” I mumble, looking down at my plate of mostly uneaten chicken and mashed potatoes. I’ve lost my appetite at some point over the last hour.
“Do you think you should get surgery?” Mom asks me.
“I don’t know,” I say. Shit, I really don’t want to have this conversation. I glance over at Haley. “Hey, look! Haley just spit up. Isn’t that cute?”
Nobody buys my ruse to change the subject.
“I know a good orthopedic surgeon,” Steve tells me. “He’s a friend of mine. I can get you an appointment.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Maybe.”
“You should see him,” Steve says. “No offense, Matt, but you look terrible walking. I thought for sure you were going to fall again. You need to get
that ankle fixed.”
“He’s right, sweetie,” Mom says. “I think you should get a second opinion. This is obviously still bothering you a lot.”
“Actually,” I say, “I already got a second opinion. It turns out that…”
I pause and notice everyone is staring at me. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’m considering telling everyone right here, right now, right
in the middle of dinner. But I have to tell them. I can’t keep up this charade any longer.
“It turns out,” I say, “that I have multiple sclerosis.”
I hear a clink as my mother’s fork clatters to the floor. My father’s mouth is hanging open.
“Are you sure about this?” Mom asks me. She looks like she’s going to cry. I may give her a stroke after all.
“Yes,” I say. I take a breath. “Actually, the truth is, I’ve been wearing ankle braces on both my legs for a while now. And I’ve been using a cane to
help me walk. I didn’t bring it because… well, you know…”
“What does this mean, Matt?” my father asks, his brow creased in a frown. “Are you on medications?”
I shake my head. “I have a progressive form of the disease that doesn’t respond to the usual meds for MS.”
“Progressive…” Dad turns the word over in his mouth. “Does that… do they think you’re going to get worse?”
He says the word “worse” like he couldn’t imagine anyone being worse than I am right now.
“Maybe,” I answer quietly. “My neurologist says that there’s a reasonable chance that…” I bite my lip, unable to go on with this sentence, but
knowing that it’s not something I’ll be able to keep from my family. “He said that in a few years, I might not be able to walk anymore.”
The color completely drains out of my mother’s face. “How could that be?” she cries. “You’re so healthy!”
I just shrug, because what do I say to that?
“What would you do if you couldn’t walk?” she says.
“I…” I swallow. “I’d have to use a wheelchair, I guess.”
I feel sick saying those words. Sick. Even though I knew there was a chance that Dr. Dunne’s prediction would come true, I never really thought about
what it would mean to lose the ability to walk. I’ve never thought about the reality of actually having to rely completely on a wheelchair.
“Oh, Matt,” Mom says. She runs over to hug me and I have to use all my self-restraint not to push her away. “It’s going to be okay. I promise,
sweetie.”
I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.
“If that happens, you can come stay with us,” she tells me. “We’ll take care of you.”
That does not make me feel better. It makes me feel about a million times worse. Does she think I want to be a guy in my thirties living with my
parents for the foreseeable future? Is this supposed to be something I should be happy about?
“Mom,” Erin says. “You don’t need to patronize him. Even if he can’t walk, he could still live on his own.”
“Don’t be silly, Erin,” Mom snorts.
I try to take deep breaths. I need to show them I’m not falling apart. I’m going to be fine. And anyway, Erin is right. Even if I lose the ability to walk,
that doesn’t mean my life will be over. Everything is going to be okay.
“I’m okay,” I finally manage. “Let’s just… can we not talk about this anymore?”
Everyone exchanges looks. I know what they’re thinking. How could we possibly not talk about this anymore? Except Haley then bursts into tears and
the timing couldn’t be better. Everyone starts cooing over Haley, and I’m left in peace. I’m actually starting to like my new niece.
Chapter 32: Anna
By the end of the evening with Tom, he is actively avoiding speaking to me. Not in a mean way or anything. But I can tell that any attraction he had to me
at the beginning of the evening is completely gone. Which is fine with me, considering I have very little desire to ever see him again.
It’s not fine with my mother. During one of my many trips to the bathroom to clean my hands, I overhear Mother and Lisa having a conversation in
which my name is prominently featured. It makes me wonder what percentage of their two-hour phone conversations involves me.
“It’s your fault anyway,” Lisa is saying to my mother. “You should have warned her that we were bringing someone.”
“If I’d warned her, she never would have come.”
“So?” Lisa sounds exasperated. “She isn’t interested in dating. So what?”
“So she’s thirty years old!” Mother cries, loud enough that I expect everyone in the house must have heard her. “At this rate, she’ll never get married.”
“She doesn’t want to get married. She wants to be alone.”
“No,” Mother says emphatically. “You don’t understand Anna.”
“Nobody understands Anna.” Lisa sighs. “She needs to see a shrink. Really. Have you seen the cans in her house? It’s like a freaking mountain of cans.
That’s not normal, Mom.”
“Well, we’ve both tried to convince her to go to a therapist,” Mother sniffs. “She won’t go.”
“The problem is that she won’t admit how crazy she is.”
I walk away at that point, unable to listen to another word, and regretful that I started listening in the first place. I know there are grains of truth in what
they’re saying. There were times in the past when I would have said that I was happy in my solitary existence. But I don’t think I’m happy anymore.
Either way, I don’t think Tom is the answer.
I leave precisely two hours after I arrived, before Mother can start lecturing me about how I need to get myself out there and start dating more, and
how it won’t be frightening once I start doing it. They are absolutely right about one thing—they don’t understand me.
I don’t feel better until I get home and have touched every single one of my cans eleven times. It eats up quite a bit of time.
By Monday, the whole thing is forgotten, more or less. Even though my “date” was a disaster, I feel confident when I walk into work. I’m good at my
job. I’m the best programmer at this company. When I’m working, I feel like I’m doing what I’m meant to do. That gives me a good feeling. Whatever
else, I am happy when I’m coding.
And then I see my cubicle.
Someone has vandalized the contents of my cubicle. Despite the myriad of complaints about me over the years, nobody has ever taken things this far.
The papers on my desk have been scattered, but the real victims of the attack are clearly my cans. They have been kicked, thrown, and some forcibly
opened. One can of creamed corn lies on my desk, bleeding its contents over my keyboard. Baked beans are spilled all over the carpeting in the shape of a
lightning bolt.
I scream.
I’ve always thought of myself as the sort of person who can keep my composure in any situation, so it pains me that I’m the only person to scream in
the entire time I’ve worked here. I wish I could take it back, especially when half the people working on our floor rush over to see what the commotion is
about.
“Go away!” I try to tell them, even as the tears are springing up in my eyes. “It’s fine. Go away!”
But nobody is budging. I hear them whispering and even snickering. This is hilarious to them—just as funny as that photo of the bag lady. Nobody
likes me here—well, except for Matt, but even he isn’t really my friend, if I’m being completely honest with myself.
I want to quit. I want to hand in my badge, walk away, and never return. I don’t feel safe here anymore.
Instead of people leaving, it seems like more and more people are coming over to see what the commotion is about. I don’t want anyone to be here to
see this. Only Matt, but I don’t see him anywhere. A tear spills over from my right eye and runs down my check. I wipe it away, not wanting them to know
that they got to me, but I’m sure some people must have seen it.
Peter makes his entrance then. He stomps over in the direction of my cubicle, parting employees like the Red Sea. I’m sure he’s completely
unsurprised that the commotion is coming from my workstation. Perhaps today will be the day I’ll give him a heart attack.
“Anna,” he says angrily. “What the hell?”
And then he sees. He takes in the ravaged workstation—the toppled and dented cans, the spilled creamed corn. His eyes widen, then he glances at me
and sees my red, watery eyes.
“Anna,” he says again, but this time with surprising tenderness. “I’m really sorry.”
And that’s when the tears start for real.
Chapter 33: Matt
The rest of the night at my parents’ house is horrible. Truly horrible. My parents treat me like I’m made of glass. Mom insists that I should use the cane if I
feel better with it, so Dad goes and fetches it from my car. And it does help, but I can tell that Mom is about to cry when she sees me walk with it. The best
thing I can say is that I don’t fall again.
Steve is almost as annoying as my parents. He keeps telling me about doctors he knows, and stories he’s heard about people with MS who got
miraculously cured. Good thing I know Steve is full of shit so I don’t start getting all excited about how I’m going to drink some wheatgrass and somehow
get all better.
The only one who’s cool about it all is Erin. (Well, Haley seems fairly okay about the whole thing too.) Erin doesn’t say much, but when we’re leaving
later that night, she hugs me. We’ve probably hugged before in the last five or six years, but this time it isn’t a hug because I’m her little brother and she
has to hug me. She hugs me like she means it.
“You’re okay, Matt,” she says.
I shake my head. “Not really.”
“No, you are.” She sounds so sure of herself that it actually makes me feel better. “You know Mom and Dad always freak out. It’ll be fine.”
Even though Erin has always irritated me, her words reminded me that she’s endured our parents the same way that I have. She gets it.
Then on Monday morning, I wake up and my right leg is really being impossible. Usually it’s just weak, but now I’m getting these crazy muscle
spasms in my hamstrings. I’ve had that a few times before, and Dr. Dunne told me it’s a combination of the lesions from my MS, and also from straining
muscles that are compensating for the weak ones. In any case, it’s clear I’m not going anywhere without the KAFO. So for the first time, I strap it on.
And you know what? It helps. A lot.
When I get to work, there’s a commotion going on. At first, I’m relieved because… well, anything to take the spotlight off my extremely conspicuous
leg brace. But then I see the commotion is coming from Anna’s cubicle. Shit.
I get over there as fast as I can. Which isn’t all that fast these days, but better with the KAFO.
Anna is standing in the middle of her cubicle and she’s crying. Actually crying. There are tears running down her cheeks and her usually pale face is
all red. Peter is there, and he’s doing his best to calm her down. A few people have come out of their cubicles to stare.
“Anna, please,” Peter is saying. “Just go to the bathroom and calm down. We’ll get this cleaned up.”
“No!” Anna is nearly screaming. “You’ll just make it worse!”
I finally get close enough to see what’s going on. Someone has decimated Anna’s can collection. The cans are strewn everywhere. Most of them are
dented and one can has been opened and is spilled all over her desk. It’s creamed corn. It’s even on her keyboard. Yuck.
“Anna…” Peter says again. He attempts to touch her shoulder and she yanks away from him like he has leprosy. How could he try to touch her?
Haven’t we established after all these years that you never, ever touch Anna Flint?
“It was Calvin Fitzgerald,” Anna says. She swipes at her red-rimmed eyes. “I know it was him. He’s the one who did this.”
Peter glances at the crowd watching them. “I’ll talk to him, okay? Just please. Calm down.”
Anna lets out a wretched sob. It’s painful to watch. Except then she notices me standing there, and some of the despair leaves her face. “Matt!” she
cries.
And then Anna does something surprising. The most surprising thing she’s ever done in the entire time I’ve known her. She runs over to me and
throws her arms around my neck.
I have to grab onto the wall of a cubicle to keep from losing my balance. For a moment, I enjoy the feeling of Anna’s lithe little body against mine. I
want to protect her and make her feel better about whatever asshole did this to her. (Let’s face it—it was probably Cal.) But just as soon as the hug started,
she realizes what she’s done and pulls away abruptly.
“I’m sorry,” Anna mumbles, although there is absolutely no need whatsoever to apologize. At all. Well, except for the part where she pulled away.
I notice that Peter is gawking at me now. I’m not sure if it’s because Anna hugged me or because of the bigass brace on my right leg.
“Are you okay?” I ask Anna.
She shakes her head. “It’s so awful what he did, Matt. I’m sure it was Calvin. It’s because of the project we’re working on… you saw how angry he
became!”
“I’ll talk to him,” I promise. “Do you need help cleaning up in your cubicle?”
I hope the answer is no. Because I can’t imagine how I’m going to pick up all those goddamn cans for her. I could wipe up the creamed corn, since it’s
on her desk.
“No, thank you,” Anna says. Her breathing is even again and her face has lost that red tinge. She actually manages a smile.
My crush on Anna is the most pointless crush in the history of the world. I may as well plan to run in the Olympics.
Still. I can help her out. No harm in that.
Chapter 34: Anna
I hate Calvin Fitzgerald.
I hate him more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my entire life. I spend the entire rest of the morning thinking about what I’d like to do to him as I clean
and sterilize my cubicle.
I’d like to walk right up to his face and tell him in front of everyone that he’s the worst programmer in the entire company. No—the worst programmer
I’ve ever met.
I’d like to tell Calvin’s next female conquest what a horrible person he is. That he refers to women by numbers rating their attractiveness. Oh yes, I
know about that.
I’d like to go into Calvin’s cubicle, take his iPhone from the top of his desk, and smash it against the floor.
“Aw, what happened here?”
I look up from my bottle of Lysol and see Calvin standing in front of my cubicle, his arms folded across his chest. He looks extremely pleased with
himself. I want to spray Lysol in his face. Instead, I lower my eyes again and go back to cleaning.
“It looks like some of these cans of yours exploded or something,” Calvin comments.
You are the dumbest person I’ve ever met. You don’t deserve a job here. You would have been fired years ago if Matt didn’t help you.
“It looks like it made quite a mess,” he goes on.
You deserve to be the one with multiple sclerosis, not Matt. I wish you were the one struggling to walk.
“It almost seems like maybe you shouldn’t have a big stack of cans in your cubicle, doesn’t it?”
I look up at him then. He’s grinning at me so wide that I want to punch him in the mouth. I take a deep breath before I look away and go back to
cleaning. I count silently to 121 and by the time I get there, he’s gone. You see? It’s a magical number.
It will work for Matt too. Matt came in with a new brace on his leg this morning and I could see how hard it’s gotten for him to walk. I’m trying so
hard to pray for him, but I just can’t seem to make it to 121 times with no mistakes. The most I’ve been able to do is 86. But I will. I will do it.
Chapter 35: Matt
“What the fuck, Matt?”
It’s the first thing Calvin says when he sees me. I decided to wait until lunchtime to confront him about the whole Anna thing. But the second I get to
his cubicle, he sees the brace on my right leg and his whole face changes.
“We need to talk,” I say.
“Like hell we do,” he says, practically leaping out of his seat.
He follows me to an empty conference room, keeping pace with my slow steps. When we get inside, I collapse into an empty seat and he sits next to
me. He leans forward intently.
I remember during our orientation years ago, Calvin and I ended up sitting together just randomly. Well, maybe not entirely randomly. I was already
sitting in the room, my hands folded in my lap like a good little employee at my very first job, then Cal plopped into the seat next to mine. I noticed right
away that he wasn’t wearing a tie, and I stared at him, shocked that he would have the audacity to do such a thing.
At first, the constant jokes he made during the orientation got me worried we’d get in trouble, but as the day dragged on, I appreciated his sense of
humor more and more. Calvin Fitzgerald was funny as hell. You couldn’t not like him. Just like I couldn’t not say yes when Cal asked me to hit the local
bar with him after work to “try and forget this stupid orientation shit.”
I used to look forward to going out after work with Calvin. I can’t even remember the last time we did it. He doesn’t even ask me anymore.
“Listen, Cal,” I say. “Were you the one who vandalized Anna’s cans?”
Calvin stares at me, the color rising up in his cheeks. He lets out an angry grunt. “Are you fucking kidding me? That’s what you want to talk about?
Those fucking cans?”
“Calvin…”
“No,” he snaps. “Forget about Anna and her stupid cans. Who gives a shit about all that?”
“Did you do it?” I press him.
“If I tell you whether I did it or not, will you tell me what’s going on with you?” Calvin looks me straight in the eyes. “Because this Achilles tear shit?
I don’t believe you anymore. There’s obviously something going on with you, and you’re my best friend, and you won’t even say what it is.”
“Fine,” I say through my teeth. “You tell me the truth and I’ll tell you the truth.”
Calvin looks at me for a second, then leans back in his chair. “Okay, I did it.” He shrugs like it isn’t any big revelation, like it’s no big deal. I want to
punch my best friend in the nose. “So what? She shouldn’t have had them anyway. I deserve a fucking medal for getting rid of them. I should have done it
years ago.”
My right hand has reflexively balled into a fist. I have to make an effort to calm myself down. “She was crying, Cal.”
“I don’t give a shit if she was crying,” he says. He raises his eyebrows at me. “So I told you the truth, Harper. Now you tell me. What’s wrong with
your legs?”
I knew this day would come, when I’d have to tell Calvin the truth. He can be extremely persistent when he wants something—that’s why he’s never
gone home from the bar alone. I rub my hands against my knees and feel the brace rubbing against my right palm. “I’ve got multiple sclerosis.”
Calvin is quiet for a second. Finally, he says, “Isn’t that the disease where you get crip… uh, need to use a wheelchair or something?”
I suck in a breath. “That’s… not exactly how I’d describe it. But… yeah, it’s making these lesions in my spinal cord, and that’s why it’s gotten harder
for me to walk.”
“So what do you do about it?” Calvin asks.
I smile crookedly. “There’s no treatment for the type I’ve got.”
He frowns at me. “So… does that mean it’s going to get worse?”
I could lie, but there’s no point. He’s going to find out sooner or later. “Yeah. It’s going to keep getting worse.”
The room is so silent, I can hear Calvin breathing. A sad look passes over his face. “Christ, man, that sucks.”
I snort. “Yeah, no kidding.”
He sighs. Calvin may be my best friend here, but he isn’t much for sentimental talks. Well, neither am I. Most of the things we’ve talked about have
been girls and bitching about Peter. Does that make us best friends? I don’t know. At the very least, I’m not sure it’s the sort of friendship that can sustain
something like this. We’ll see.
Calvin glances at the door. “So Anna was really upset about her cans, huh?”
I nod.
“You know,” Calvin says, “just because you’re legs are messed up, you can still do better than Crazy Anna.”
My cheeks get hot. Calvin has joked around about me liking girls before, but I’ve never reacted this way. I’m embarrassed by my embarrassment.
But Calvin just laughs in that flippant way of his. “Fine. I’ll apologize to Anna. I won’t bother her again.”
“You promise?”
Calvin grins at me. “What do you think Crazy Anna would do if you asked her out?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe throw cans at me.”
“If you ask her,” Calvin says, “you should probably wear a helmet.”
“And body armor,” I add.
We laugh, but the truth is that asking Anna is out is something I’ve been thinking about more and more lately. But I don’t because I’m sure I know
what her answer would be.
Chapter 36: Matt
You would think that given my issues, shopping would be a pain. But actually, I like it. Because, think about it: in the grocery store, everyone is pushing
around a shopping cart. I can toss my cane into the cart, and use the cart like it’s a walker. I practically feel normal again.
Today I know I’m not going to feel normal though, no matter what. My right leg has been acting up all day, and I’m tired. But all I’ve got in my
refrigerator is ketchup and a moldy apple, so unless I want to get drive-thru McDonald’s for the fourth day in a row, I’m going to have to buy some
groceries.
When I get into the grocery store, I’m about to toss my cane into a cart when I see them. Two scooters with baskets in front for groceries. I’ve seen
those mechanical scooters a million times and not thought much about them. But now all I can think is how much easier it would be to do my shopping in
one of those scooters.
It wouldn’t be a step towards not being able to walk. It would just help conserve my energy.
Before I can overthink it, I sit down in one of the scooters. I feel ridiculous sitting in it. It’s got a little control panel in the front that seems fairly
straightforward to use. I hit a button and the scooter moves forward.
It takes me a few minutes to get the hang of it. Literally every single person I pass stares at me in this scooter. But since I’ve still got my KAFO on my
right leg, I don’t think anyone is doubting my need for it. I’m obviously not a faker, taking a joyride in the motorized shopping cart.
I have to say, it does make shopping a lot easier. A lot easier. I’m grateful though that I do have the ability to stand, because a few times, I have to get
out to reach an item on a higher shelf. That said, at least three times, I was paused in an aisle, thinking about what to buy, and a worker rushed over to me,
and said, “Can I help you with anything, sir?”
When I’m driving through the canned food aisle, I can’t help but think of Anna. I wonder if she’s replacing all those cans.
And that’s when I see it:
It’s a can of jellied cranberries. And for some reason, it makes me think of Anna. I’m not sure what makes me think this, but somehow, I think she’d
want this can.
So I grab it and put it in my cart.
Stupid, right?
The hardest part about the motorized cart is navigating it down the narrow checkout aisle. I start trying to squeeze it down the aisle and it doesn’t seem
like it’s going to fit. After a moment of trying to figure it out, the checkout girl calls to me, “Sir! We have a handicapped aisle down on the end. We can
open it up for you.”
“But I’m not—” I start to say.
Except what was I going to say, exactly? That I’m not handicapped? I’m in a fucking motorized cart. Obviously, I need the handicapped aisle. Why
would I fight them on this?
So I follow them to a wider aisle that my motorized cart can fit down easily. The cashier helps me get my groceries on the conveyer belt, even though I
can definitely at least do that myself. It does work out that the credit card machine is lowered to a height that I can manage without getting out of the
scooter.
“Would you like help carrying the groceries to your car, sir?” the girl bagging my groceries asks me. I start to tell her no, but then she adds, “You can’t
take the scooter off the premises. The wheels lock.”
“Oh,” I say. That will be a problem, actually. I’ve got three bags of groceries, which I can’t possibly carry on my own. I could transfer them to a cart,
then push the cart to my car. Or… “Okay, thank you.”
I leave the scooter parked outside the grocery store where I found it. The girl follows me out there, and easily grabs my groceries from the basket while
I struggle to my feet with my cane. The girl smiles at me while she patiently walks with me to my car in five times the amount of time it would have taken
her to walk there herself. She’s maybe twenty and fairly pretty—Calvin and I would have called her a solid eight, back in the day when I used to hit on
girls like her. She’s more my type than Cal’s, with her wavy blond hair and little upturned nose with the freckles, but it’s obvious by the patronizing smiles
she’s giving me that any attempts to get her phone number will be embarrassing for both of us. She’s not looking for a guy who shops with a motorized
scooter and needs a girl to carry his groceries for him.
I pop my trunk open and the girl drops the groceries inside. She gives me that overly sweet smile again. “Anything more I can do for you, sir?”
“No, I’m fine,” I mumble.
I watch her sprint back to the store, feeling some combination of old and crippled. I am never using a motorized shopping scooter again, that’s for
goddamn sure.
Chapter 37: Anna
I am the last person to leave work every day. I can’t risk aggravating my knee problems, and this is the only time when the elevator is likely to be empty. I
still hoof it up the stairs every morning.
It’s nearly six and I’m busy cleaning up my cubicle from the assault this morning. I cleaned everything with Lysol this morning, but the entire space
still felt contaminated. But I was out of Lysol. So I had to go out to the drug store and purchase more Lysol. That ended up taking a while, because the first
store I went to only had one bottle of Lysol, and I was afraid that since it was in the front of the row, someone had been touching it. I had to go to yet
another drug store that had a more plentiful supply of Lysol in order to complete my purchase. By the time I got back to my cubicle, my knees were killing
me.
After that, I went over the cubicle a second time, then a third, then a fourth. I’ve spent the entire day cleaning, my hands are raw, and I still feel that the
cubicle is contaminated. I’m considering going back to the drug store and purchasing some bleach. I don’t know what else to do. I suppose I could ask
Peter to move me to the empty cubicle at the end of the aisle, but then I wouldn’t be next to Matt. And anyway, he probably wouldn’t do it.
I’m rubbing down my desk for the tenth or twentieth time today when I hear footsteps approaching. I know immediately that it’s not Matt—the sound
of his limp is easily distinguishable these days. It’s somebody else. Somebody very sure-footed.
“Hi, Anna.”
Such as Calvin Fitzgerald.
He’s standing in front of my cubicle, his hands folded across his chest. I look at him with some degree of trepidation mixed with my hatred. We are
two of the last people in the office. Matt is long gone. Peter is gone too. Earlier Calvin came here to taunt me. But now there are no witnesses in the
vicinity. I imagine him moving closer to me, trying to touch me… or worse.
If he does that, I’ll spray him in the eyes with Lysol. And I’ll run.
“Hello, Calvin.” I keep my Lysol bottle clutched in my hand.
“Listen, Anna…” He reaches up and scratches his head. His pose is not threatening. “I wanted to talk to you.”
I raise my eyebrows at him and point my spray bottle in his direction. “You may proceed.”
A flash of anger passes over his conventionally handsome features. “For fuck’s sake, Anna, why do you always have to be so goddamn weird?”
I just look at him. I’m not sure how to answer that question.
Calvin sighs and his shoulders sag. “Look, Anna, the thing is… I’m the one who… you know, I…” He sighs again. “I messed with your cans. Okay?
And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I mean, you shouldn’t have the cans in the first place, but… okay, never mind that. The point is that I’m sorry.
And if you want to report me to Peter, well… I hope you won’t, but I’m not going to deny my guilt if you do.”
An apology from Calvin Fitzgerald. I expect hell may have frozen over and that pigs are presently soaring through the sky.
“I won’t tell Peter,” I say.
Calvin’s smiles crookedly. “Thanks.”
I study his face. “Matt told you to say you’re sorry?”
He hesitates for a moment. “Yeah. He did.”
I imagine Matt confronting Calvin, standing up for me and telling his best friend what he did was wrong. I wish I could have seen it. Before I can stop
myself, I blurt out, “Did he say anything else about me?”
Calvin seems thrown off by my question. For a second or two, he just stares at me. Then his lips twist into that grin that all the women in the office
find so terribly irresistible. “Why do you ask, Anna?”
My cheeks grow warm. I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t like the idea of this man having any sort of window into my thoughts about Matt. I imagine
him telling Matt, about the two of them laughing about me having a deluded little crush. “Never mind,” I mumble.
I feel sick as Calvin walks away chuckling to himself.
Chapter 38: Matt
I can’t describe how dumb I feel when I make my way into the office the next day with the can of jellied cranberries. I’ve got it in the plastic bag from the
supermarket, hanging off my wrist, which makes it even dumber. But then again, what am I supposed to do? Gift wrap the can? That would be over the top.
I get to Anna’s cubicle and I see that she has partially rebuilt her tower of cans from the ones she could salvage, but it’s much, much smaller than the
original tower. To be honest, the tower was getting ridiculous. Someone needed to tell her that (someone who wasn’t me).
“Hey, Anna,” I say as I hover at the entrance to her cubicle. I’m wearing my KAFO again today, and I’ve resigned myself to the new brace being a
permanent fixture. It’s better than falling.
“Hi, Matt,” she says as she smiles up at me. My heart flutters in my chest.
We stare at each other for a few awkward seconds. I know I’m supposed to be giving her the can, but it’s too ridiculous.
“Hey,” she says suddenly, “Calvin apologized.”
I feign ignorance. “Did he?”
She smiles again. “I know you told him to do it. He never would have otherwise.”
“Oh.” I laugh nervously. “Yeah. I guess I did. But… it was the right thing to do. He shouldn’t have done that to you.”
Anna nods. “He was very nice. I think it will be okay now.”
Yeah, until next time she’s honest with him about his programming abilities.
“Good.” I take a deep breath. “Listen, Anna… um, I was at the supermarket yesterday and I sort of… got you something.”
I hold out the plastic bag to her. Wow, this feels like the stupidest thing ever. I can’t believe I’m giving a girl I really like a can of cranberries from the
supermarket. I’ve completely lost my mind. The MS has got to be affecting my brain. I mean, at least I should have gotten her two cans. Or… or I don’t
know, something better than a can. I feel like a complete moron.
Anna takes the bag from me and pulls out the can. Her blue eyes grow wide.
She hates it. What was I thinking?
“If you don’t like it, it’s okay,” I say quickly. I almost feel compelled to apologize. “I just… I saw it and I thought of you. I thought maybe you’d like
it. For your collection?”
Christ, I sound like an idiot right now.
I watch her face, waiting to see if she’ll laugh at me or tell me it’s unacceptable. I deserve to be laughed at. This should go down in history as the
absolute dumbest thing that a guy has ever done for a girl he liked.
But after what feels like five hours, a smile spreads across her lips.
“I love it,” she breathes.
And she places it right on top of her new tower of cans.
If there were ever a moment to ask Anna Flint on a date, this would be it. I have scored big with my gift of a can. But as I watch her adjusting the cans,
tapping each one as she goes, I sense that there might never be such a moment.
Chapter 39: Anna
All morning, I can’t stop thinking about that can of cranberries.
I’ve gotten a lot of presents over the course of my life, usually from family. For Christmas last year, my mother bought me a sweater that she insisted
would look “gorgeous” on me, which of course I will never wear because it’s a ridiculously bright shade of blue. For my birthday, Lisa knitted me a hat
and scarf that I will also never wear because I guarantee her fingers weren’t clean at every moment that she was at work on the hat and scarf. And for no
particular reason, Matt bought me a can of cranberries.
It’s maybe the nicest present I’ve ever gotten.
It’s not something I would have picked out myself. There’s nothing about this can of cranberries that speaks to me like some of the other cans have
spoken to me. I’m not going to lie and say there is. But the fact that Matt gave it to me makes it the most special can in my entire collection.
I fantasize about him standing in the aisle at the grocery store and picking it out for me. He was at the grocery store and he was thinking about me. If
that’s the case, it must mean that… well, could it mean that he has feelings for me?
No, that’s silly. Matt is too normal to become infatuated with someone like me. Although he’s not as normal as he was before the cane and that brace
that runs all the way up his right leg. Maybe…
No. Unlikely. Impossible even.
Not that I would even want such a thing.
At 10:40 a.m., I stand up to head to the break room to eat my lunch. I fish my turkey sandwich from within my purse and I’m ready to go. As I walk
past, I happen to see Matt still working at his computer. His blue eyes are pinned on the computer screen as he works on his latest project. He’s a great
programmer—nearly as good as I am.
I wonder if I should ask him to join me for lunch.
No. It’s a terrible idea. First of all, I’m sure he would say no. He’d probably give me a strange look like I was crazy for even asking. He’d probably be
sorry he gave me that can, thinking maybe I got the wrong idea.
Second of all, even if he said yes, which he’d probably do just to be nice, I’m not sure if I’d feel comfortable doing my cleaning ritual with him in the
room. And there’s no way I’m eating in that room without spraying it down with Lysol.
Third of all, what would we talk about? I’m painfully aware that I’m not particularly skilled at the art of small talk. If I started talking, I’d probably
start going on and on about cans or palindromes or something that would make him look at me the way Tom did at the end of the evening at my parents’
house.
No, it’s better that I eat alone. The way I do every day. It’s safer this way.
Chapter 40: Matt
At exactly 10:40 a.m. every single morning, Anna stands up from her desk. She rifles around in her purse, pulls out a lunch bag, then hurries off to the
break room. You could set your watch by that girl.
Not that I’m keeping track or anything.
Today I notice that before she leaves, she stands in front of her cubicle for a good minute, like she’s thinking about something. I have no idea what.
Who knows what Anna is ever thinking? But for some crazy reason, when she leaves, I get up and follow her to the break room. She’s got her bottle of
Lysol, and she’s vigorously wiping down the table. She startles when she sees me and hides the Lysol behind her back. I can’t help but smile—she’s
adorable.
“I was wondering why the table in here is always so clean,” I say.
Anna’s pale cheeks turn pink. “Yes,” she says.
I take a deep breath. “Do you mind if I join you?”
Anna studies me for a moment. If she says no, I’m going to feel like an idiot. “Okay. I guess so.”
I quickly get my lunch out of the refrigerator before she can change her mind. I packed a tuna sandwich. Anna has also brought a sandwich, packed
away carefully in a lunchbox with an icepack inside. I’ve noticed that she always keeps her lunch at her desk and never puts it in the refrigerator like the
rest of us. I wonder if she has something against the fridge. I wouldn’t blame her. It’s disgusting.
I take my mug from the cabinet above the sink and position it under the water cooler. The water cooler gurgles in protest as my cup fills with cold
water. As I put the cup of water down at the table, Anna’s blue eyes grow wide. I hear her suck in a breath.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
Anna stares warily at my water. I can see her internally debating whether or not to say anything. “Nothing,” she finally says.
“Tell me,” I say.
She chews on her lip for a moment. “It’s just that… water coolers are cesspools for bacteria and you just know that nobody ever cleans that one. Also,
how can you drink from an open cup like that? You don’t know what sorts of things land in it. I mean, all the toxins in the air are now in your cup.” She
gestures at her water bottle. “That’s why I bring my own water in a bottle from home.”
“Oh,” I say, because what the hell else am I supposed to say to that?
She averts her eyes. “Never mind. Forget it.”
Except Anna most definitely is not capable of “forgetting it.” She keeps staring at my cup, tapping on the table, looking more and more anxious.
Finally, I can’t stand it anymore, so I get up and pour it out in the sink. “I’ll just get a bottle of water from the vending machine later,” I say.
“It’s so much safer,” Anna says gratefully.
I nod. If I start eating regularly with Anna, I’ll just have to buy a water bottle. It’s not a big deal.
Anna looks at my sandwich and smiles. “A nut for a jar of tuna,” she says.
I look down at my tuna sandwich. What the hell is she talking about? Is she trying to offer me a nut for my sandwich?
“It’s a palindrome,” Anna says, her cheeks coloring. “That’s a word or phrase that’s the same forward and backwards.”
“I know what a palindrome is,” I say.
“You do?” She seems delighted. “I love palindromes. My name is a palindrome, you know.”
“True,” I say. I add, “Mine isn’t.”
“I know,” Anna sighs sadly. “But that’s okay. Not many people have names that are palindromes like I do. If I have children, I would name my
daughter Eve and my son Otto.” She gazes at her water bottle thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’ll have children though.”
I would have to agree with that.
“That’s why I love the number eleven,” Anna continues, growing more excited. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen her talk so excitedly about anything in
all the time I’ve known her. “It’s the smallest palindrome number. But my absolute favorite number is 121. Because it’s eleven times eleven, and it’s also a
palindrome itself! That’s why I’m trying to get to 121 cans at home, and I bring the extra ones here. In fact—” She stops talking abruptly, her cheeks pink.
“In fact what?” I say.
Anna shakes her head. “Sorry. I’m not supposed to talk about this. You… you’ll think I’m weird. For liking palindromes so much.” Her cheeks redden
further. “I don’t want you to think I’m weird.”
I almost laugh. There’s nothing Anna Flint could say that would make me think she’s weirder than I already do. But I wouldn’t say that to her. It’s cute
the way she’s looking down at her food, all embarrassed. I want to make her feel better about it, but there’s only one thing I can think of to say that might
help.
“Rise to vote, sir,” I say. It’s a palindrome, in case you hadn’t noticed.
Anna lifts her eyes. A smile spreads across her lips. “Now Eve, we’re here, we’ve won.”
“Taco cat,” I say.
She giggles. “Are we not drawn onward, we few? Drawn onward, to new era.”
“Naomi, did I moan?”
“Was it a bar or a bat I saw?”
I reach into the recesses of my brain and pull out the very last palindrome I can think of: “A man, a plan, a canal—Panama!”
Anna’s face lights up. “A man, a plan, a canoe, pasta, heros, rajahs, a coloratura, maps, snipe, percale, macaroni, a gag, a banana bag, a tan, a tag, a
banana bag again (or a camel), a crepe, pins, Spam, a rut, a Rolo, cash, a jar, sore hats, a peon, a canal – Panama!”
Don’t tell anyone, but I think I’m in love with Anna Flint.
Chapter 41: Anna
Don’t tell anyone, but I think I’m in love with Matt Harper.
Year Four
Chapter 42: Matt
It’s almost quitting time on Friday afternoon, and I can hear Calvin making plans. He used to do this every single Friday—he’d come to my cubicle at five
or so and figure out what bar we were going to hit up. It was the best moment of the week.
Right now, Cal is making his usual Friday night plans, except it’s not with me. It’s with Joe, who’s two cubicles down from me. Joe came to the
company about a year ago, and although Calvin will claim I’m still his best buddy, you’d never know it. It’s Joe who acts as his wingman these days.
Going to bars isn’t my thing anymore.
That’s not the only thing that’s changed about me.
Not surprisingly, things have deteriorated further in the last year. About two months ago, I got a KAFO for my left leg too. The cane wasn’t giving me
nearly enough support anymore, so I also switched over to something called Lofstrand crutches, which are basically forearm crutches. They have metal
circles that loop around either forearm and a handle I can grip. I tried to get away with just using one, but really, I need them both. I’m more comfortable
with a walker, but I just can’t bring myself to use that in public.
Back when I yelled at that girl Sue for calling me crippled, I actually looked normal. Right now, not so much. I look like a guy with a significant
disability. There’s absolutely no hiding it anymore, although I did buy baggier pants so that the KAFOs could be worn under them instead of over. That
helps.
So yeah, everyone knows. I had to fill my landlady Rosie in on the whole deal when I needed her permission to install a grab bar by the toilet. I told
my boss Peter, which is why I’m able to work from home half the week, and only come in two or three days. Every single person in the office is aware that
I have MS.
Which probably explains why hardly anyone talks to me anymore.
Well, except Anna.
Not that anything has happened between me and Anna. Of course it hasn’t—this is Anna we’re talking about. But we talk every day at lunch, during
which time I’ve learned that she doesn’t eat at restaurants and she doesn’t allow other people in her house aside from her immediate family (and even that
she doesn’t seem too thrilled about). So I haven’t been able to figure out how to ask her out, and I’m so afraid of getting shot down that I’ve just given up.
But I like eating lunch with Anna and talking to her. She doesn’t use that patronizing voice everyone else uses when she talks to me. She doesn’t avoid
eye contact. She doesn’t act like MS might be contagious. She acts like I’m completely normal, like it isn’t a problem at all that I’m hobbling around in
full-length leg braces and forearm crutches.
“Did you hit that nine you took home last week?” I hear Calvin asking Joe.
Still calling girls by numbers. How goddamn immature.
Don’t tell anyone that I miss it.
“Her goddamn roommate cock-blocked me,” Joe complains. “Then she got all weird about giving me her number and… I don’t know, fuck it. She was
too high maintenance.”
If possible, Joe is an even bigger asshole than Calvin. I hear the two of them laughing about Anna and her reconstituted collection of cans. When I
listen to them talking, I wonder if I used to sound like that big a jackass. I kept Calvin from giving Anna as hard a time as he probably would have. I’d like
to think I was nice.
Calvin and Joe fist-bump each other, and Calvin heads down the aisle toward his own cubicle. As he passes by my cube, our eyes meet. I can’t
remember the last time Calvin asked me to come to a bar with him to hit on girls. Not that I blame him—I’m not much of a wingman anymore. At this
point, I scare girls off.
But I’m sure Cal knows that I overheard him talking to Joe, and he gets all flustered. He hesitates, probably deciding what would be worse: to snub me
or to have to bring me along.
“Hey, Matt,” he says.
“Hey, Cal.”
He smiles awkwardly. “You… doing okay?”
I hate that he uses that voice with me. That patronizing voice, like I’m going to fucking drop dead soon.
“Sure,” I say.
He rakes a hand through his hair. Cal’s hair has been receding a bit lately—I’ll bet it bothers him. My hair is still thick, but I doubt he’d trade places.
“Listen, Matt,” he says. “Joe and I are going to hit the bar after work today. Do you… want to come?”
I can read Calvin’s thoughts: Please say no. Please say no.
“That’s okay,” I say. May as well let the asshole off the hook. At least he tried. Gold star for being nice to the crippled guy.
Calvin looks relieved. He starts to walk away, but then he stops. He turns around. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
What?
“You should come, Matt,” Calvin says. “Really.”
Does he mean it? He can’t possibly.
“Come on.” Calvin grins at me and it isn’t that sympathetic smile I’ve gotten used to. It’s the old Cal Fitzgerald grin. He slugs me in the arm. “When’s
the last time you got laid? I bet it’s been ages.”
He’s right. It’s been ages. I don’t even want to think about it.
“Okay,” I agree before I can change my mind.
“Awesome,” Calvin says. And I have to hand it to him—he actually sounds like he means it.
Chapter 43: Anna
Matt has become my best friend.
I haven’t had a best friend in a long time. Not since before high school, when I started to become more and more anxious about the idea of being
physically close to other people. My last best friend was probably Sophia Chin, who I met when we were seated next to each other in homeroom in seventh
grade. Sophia was quiet like I was, with the straightest, blackest hair I’d ever seen, and the two of us always had the highest scores on math tests. We sat
together during lunch every day, although I can’t for the life of me remember what we used to talk about. Probably not palindromes.
Near the end of eighth grade, Sophia suggested we join some new friends of hers for lunch. I had absolutely no desire to join a new group of girls, but I
didn’t want to eat alone either. The new friends were playing Hearts while they ate, and they invited me to join them. I thought about it, but then I saw
them touching the cards with hands they had just used to eat, and I told them I didn’t want to play. The next day, Sophia joined her new friends again, and I
ate alone for the rest of the year.
Most of the time, I find it preferable to be alone. Solitude makes me feel safe—there can be no contamination if nobody else is around. I recognize that
very few people are able to live up to the standard of cleanliness that I require. Yet sometimes I’ll see other people together and I’ll get a deep feeling of…
I don't know what, exactly. Loneliness? Yearning?
Matt’s friendship has meant more to me than I thought it would. I had worried that the two of us wouldn’t find anything to talk about during our daily
lunches, but somehow, we always find something to talk about. Sometimes the two of us have so much to say that we’re tripping on our words. I’ve never
had that experience with another person, even Sophia or the friends that preceded her. Maybe because he’s a programmer like I am.
I know this has been a difficult year for Matt. He’s gone from walking with his cane to now using crutches with metal rings that encircle both his
forearms. He uses braces on both his legs from his hips to his feet. I can tell that every step has become a struggle for him. And for this, I blame myself—
I’ve still not been able to say my prayer for him 121 times perfectly.
Of course, I recognize that my feelings for Matt now go beyond friendship, and that’s something new for me as well. There were times when I’ve felt
fleeting interest in persons of the opposite sex, but any thoughts of being touched or kissed immediately filled me with anxiety and disgust. Somehow,
that’s not true of Matt. I think about him all the time—he’s my first thought when I wake in the morning and my last thought before I go to sleep at night. I
fantasize about lying in his arms, his lips on mine, his body pressed against mine.
Although in reality, I still fear his touch. The few times he has brushed against me inadvertently, my heart started to pound and I leapt away. The
thought of him actually kissing me makes me dizzy with fear.
I treasure our lunches together every day. And every evening that he works, he waits with me until everyone else leaves and takes the elevator
downstairs with me. I don’t mind being in the elevator with him, even though we’re breathing the same air. And ever since he started walking me
downstairs, I haven’t gotten worried about hitting someone in the parking garage because he watches me pull out of my spot.
If everything between me and Matt stayed the same forever, I’d be satisfied. But I wonder if he feels the same way.
I’m not entirely naïve. I understand that men have needs. I know that the fact that Matt spends so much of his time with me indicates that his feelings
for me may stretch beyond friendship. I’ve heard people at the office giggling about “Matt’s crush on Crazy Anna” and ribbing him about it. So I suspect
that at some point, he may expect to take our relationship to a different level.
And as much as part of me wants that, I’m scared I might not be able to give it to him. Once he realizes that, he may decide to move on. The same way
Sophia moved on when I couldn’t be the fun card-playing friend she wanted.
Today is Friday and I notice at a quarter past five that Matt seems to be packing up the papers in his cubicle. That’s generally a sign that he’s leaving.
Usually he waits with me past six on the days he’s here, but today he’s leaving early. I watch him lace his forearms through his crutches and pull himself
into a standing position, something that has clearly become a lot more difficult for him recently. This is a sure sign he’s leaving. He would never go
through the effort of getting to his feet unless he was on his way out.
“Matt,” I say.
He stops. I see the way his knuckles turn white as they grip the handles of his crutches. He hates those crutches—he’s told me that more than once, but
he didn’t have to. I see it in his eyes.
“Hey, Anna.” He sounds guilty.
“Are you leaving?”
“Um.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah. Sort of.”
There’s no rule or agreement that Matt must wait for me every day after work. He’s never promised to do so. But the fact that he’s slipping out without
telling me makes me feel oddly betrayed.
“It’s just…” Matt bites his lip. “The guys invited me…”
He nods in the direction of the elevators. I can see through the glass doors separating the office from the hallway that Calvin Fitzgerald is standing next
to Joe Ricci. I thought I disliked Calvin, but when Joe Ricci joined our company, I discovered an entire new level of distaste. Joe is a greasy-haired,
chauvinist pig to the hundredth degree. And moreover, I’m absolutely convinced that Joe has been doing things to tamper with my workstation in my
absence. I reported him once to Peter Glassman, who just rolled his eyes at me and said, “Moving a pencil across your desk isn’t a crime.”
The two of them seem to notice me talking to Matt. Joe nudges Calvin, and the two of them laugh. I look away.
“You really want to hang out with those two?” I blurt out.
Matt glances over at them and sighs. “No,” he admits. “Not really.”
“So stay here,” I say. With me.
He hangs his head. “I told them I’d come, so… look, it’s just one time. For old time’s sake…”
“Oh,” I mumble.
He shifts his weight on his crutches. “If you don’t want me to go, I won’t go.”
I’m touched by his offer. I’ve been abandoned by friends on so many occasions because I wasn’t the “fun” choice. I know Matt is excited to go to the
bar with Calvin and Joe—I can’t blame him for that. And I can’t blame him for wanting to search for some other girl to give him what I can’t. I’m not, after
all, his girlfriend.
“No,” I say. “It’s your decision.”
Matt seems oddly disappointed by my response. I thought he’d be happy that I was giving him permission to go out and have a good time. But his
voice becomes more subdued. “I’ll see you Monday, okay?”
I nod and watch him limp off in the direction of his friends. I wonder if he’ll find a girl tonight. I don’t think he’s been on a date in a long time, and
I’m sure he’s been longing for something like that. He’s attractive, even with the crutches.
Jealousy is a new emotion for me. It stabs me like an icepick in the chest as I watch Matt walk away.
Chapter 44: Matt
Well, Anna Flint sure lays out one hell of a guilt trip.
The look on her face when I told her that I was going out with Joe and Cal… she looked so goddamn hurt. I know I’ve been staying late to walk her
downstairs every night, so this blindsided her. And even though it sucks to have to hang around work so late, getting to be alone with her as we go
downstairs in the elevator has become the best part of my day.
Sometimes the urge to grab her hand is overwhelming. But I’m not an idiot. I know that wouldn’t go over well.
As I walk toward Joe and Calvin at the elevators, I feel a pang of regret. I should have stayed with Anna—the truth is, I badly wanted her to order me
to stay. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing with these guys. Do I seriously think I’m going to be able to go to a bar and hit on girls? It seems ridiculous.
As I get closer, the two of them stop talking abruptly. Joe stares at me blatantly, which isn’t entirely unusual these days. I don’t know the guy very well
—he started working here just when I was getting worse, and we never connected. He doesn’t talk to me much, and it’s mutual.
“Hey, Matt!” Cal says, raising his hand in greeting.
“Hey,” I say.
Joe smiles thinly. “It’s so great you could make it out with us tonight, Matt.”
My right foot snags against the carpeting slightly and I grip my crutches tighter to keep my balance. Fucking right leg. The last thing I want right now
is for Cal and Joe to pick my sorry ass off the floor.
“Hey, Matt,” Joe says, “it turns out the elevator is broken and we need to take the stairs. That okay with you?”
It takes me a second to realize that he’s messing with me. I know I should laugh when he does, but it’s hard. Maybe if I’d been on these crutches for
years, it would be easier to laugh at myself.
When we walk down the block to get to the bar, I can’t help but feel jealous of Calvin and Joe. It’s so easy for them to walk. They’re not even thinking
about it. They’re not carefully watching for any cracks or indentations in the sidewalk that might send them flying. They’re not expending massive amounts
of energy to get their feet to clear the ground. The only thought they’re giving to it is having to slow down so I can keep up. I can tell Joe is annoyed with
me that I’m taking so long.
Calvin holds the door for me at the bar. We get a table near the entrance, even though I know Cal likes to sit in the back so he can check out all the
girls. As I slide into my chair, I stash my crutches under the table.
There. Now I look almost normal.
“Shit.” Joe looks around. “All the girls here tonight are complete dogs. What the fuck?”
“It’s still early, man,” Calvin says.
I don’t know what to say. The girls here are gorgeous. I would gladly have sex with any woman here tonight. Shit, I’m getting to the point where I’d
literally have sex with a dog.
“So, Matt,” Joe says as he leans across the table. He’s got a smirk on his face that makes me want to punch him. “Would your girlfriend be upset if you
hooked up tonight?”
I shake my head. “What are you talking about?”
“You know.” Joe grins at me. “The can lady.”
He means Anna, I’m assuming. I really, really want to hit him right now.
“Don’t call her that,” I say through my teeth.
I look at Calvin, who chimes in half-heartedly, “Yeah.”
Joe shrugs. “Why not? You call her that, Cal.”
Calvin shoots Joe a look.
“I mean,” Joe continues, “what the fuck is up with all those cans? Does she think the apocalypse is coming? And do you see her go around with that
can of Lysol?”
“She likes Lysol,” I manage. My right hand is balled up in a fist.
“You know what we did one day?” Joe nudges Calvin. “We snuck into her cubicle and put a drop of coffee on her desk every time she got up. When
she saw it, she’d have to wipe down her cubicle with Lysol for like half an hour. It was fucking hilarious!”
I suck in a breath. I remember that day. Anna was nearly in tears.
I look over at Calvin, who at least seems embarrassed. “That was a shitty thing to do,” I say.
“Whatever.” Joe waves his hand. “This is just Crazy Anna we’re talking about.”
I don’t know what I would have done or said, but the waitress comes over at that moment to take our drink orders, and by the time we’re done, Calvin
has swiftly changed the topic of conversation. Before long, he and Joe are ranking every girl sitting in the bar.
Okay, I’m doing it too.
And you know what? Fuck you—it’s fun. It’s fun to look at these random women and completely objectify them. It’s fun to drink and laugh with Cal
and Joe and not think about my legs for a change.
Although if someone gave me a choice between this and an evening with Anna, I’d pick Anna in a second.
After we’ve been at the bar for close to an hour, Cal sends a pair of drinks to some girls across the bar. He’s decided they’re an eight and a nine. There
are only two of them, and it’s implied that the girls will be for Cal and Joe. We all know there’s essentially zero chance either of them would go for me.
My heart actually starts to race when the girls come over to us. When they get closer, the eight nudges the nine, and says, “You can have the hot one,
and I’ll take the cute one.”
Apparently, I’m the cute one. At least, that’s what I assume when the eight (actually named Jessie) sits next to me and starts talking to me. The nine
(Petra) sits next to Calvin, and Joe is left the odd man out. I allow myself a pat on the back for that one.
Jessie smells like flowers, and is wearing a teeny tiny tank top. She’s closer to me than any woman has been in a long time, and instead of being my
usual (ha!) suave self, I’m finding it hard to think and even breathe. Luckily, Jessie doesn’t seem to mind one bit.
“You’re the quiet type, aren’t you, Matt?” Jessie whispers in my ear.
“Maybe,” I say. Up until recently, nobody ever would have described me that way. But when Jessie’s tongue is nearly in my ear, I’m going to agree
with everything she says.
“I like that,” she says. “It means you’re a good listener.”
Sure. Whatever you say, lady.
Jessie’s fingers slide into my hair, and I swear to fucking God, I’m going to cream myself right here and now. She smiles at me and says, “You ever
kissed a girl with a tongue stud before?”
“Once.” A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far away.
“Did you like it?”
“Yes,” I manage.
Christ, when did I become so terrified around the opposite sex? Jessie is sliding closer to me, and I wonder if she notices the braces on my legs. Maybe
she does. Maybe she’s fine with it. I mean, she’s close enough that I think she must notice.
“I love your eyes,” Jessie tells me. “They’re very soulful.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I like your…” I like Jessie’s tits. They’re high and firm and packed into that tight little tank top. But I probably shouldn’t say that.
It’s not generally something you want to compliment a girl on after she tells you that you’re soulful. “I like your eyes too. They’re blue but they look
green.”
“That’s because they’re yellow in the middle,” Jessie says. “Like a cat.”
“I like cats.” Christ, I sound like a moron.
“I like quiet guys with soulful eyes,” she says in a low voice.
And then we’re kissing. Forget the tongue stud—I don’t even want to think about the last time I kissed a girl period. Damn, it feels good. I might be in
love with Anna, but I don’t even care anymore. I want this girl. I want to fuck her. Short of that, I want to keep kissing her. She’s so fucking hot.
I’ve got one beer in me, and while I’m kissing her, the urge to go to the bathroom hits me. It used to be that I would need the bathroom, and I could
wait an hour or two if necessary. That’s not true recently. When the urge strikes me, it suddenly feels very urgent. Scarily urgent. And that’s how I feel
right now, while I’m kissing Jessie. I need the bathroom, or else… I don’t even want to think about the “or else.” I need the bathroom.
“Hey,” I say to Jessie as we separate for air. She seems breathless, and for that, I give myself another little pat on the back. “I gotta take a piss. I’ll be
right back.”
Jessie grins at me. “Should I come with you?”
Shit, no. “That’s okay. I’ll be right back.”
At that point, I thought Jessie had to realize my situation, or at least had some slight idea. But when I grab my crutches out from under the table, and
struggle to my feet, I see that’s not the case. All the blood drains out of Jessie’s pretty face.
“Oh,” she says. “I didn’t realize that…”
“I’ll be right back,” I say.
I start the trek to the back of the bar, where the bathrooms are located. As I walk away, I hear Jessie say, “For fuck’s sake! Why didn’t any of you warn
me I was kissing a gimp!”
Well, so much for getting sex tonight.
I make it to the bathroom in time, despite the number of tables I have to navigate past. There are two stalls available and two urinals, and I use the
handicapped stall. I only recently started doing that. I’d actually been avoiding the handicapped stalls like the plague, but people keep offering them to me.
It’s hard to unzip and also to point my dick in the right direction while I’m also struggling to stay on my feet, so I gave in and started pissing while sitting
down. Yeah, it’s emasculating, but preferable to face-planting into a piss-filled urinal.
When I get back to the table, Jessie is gone and so is Joe. I should have seen it coming but it still makes me feel like shit. Calvin sees my face and
looks guilty. “She said she wasn’t feeling well and Joe offered to drive her home,” he explains.
“Right,” I say as I drop down into my seat.
Petra, the nine, says to me, “I told her to stay. I thought you were still cuter than the other guy. He had way too much gel in his hair.”
“Thanks.” I roll my eyes.
“Do you want to have another drink with me and Petra?” Calvin asks me.
I shake my head. “That’s okay. I think I’m going to head out, if you don’t mind. I’m tired.”
I’m not lying. Lately, I’ve been needing about ten hours of sleep to get through the day. But even so, I would have had energy if Jessie were still here.
I get back on my feet and head back to the office building, where my car is parked in the handicapped spot by the entrance. I got my plates six months
ago, right when I converted to hand controls for the car. At first, I swore I’d never use those plates. But now I use them. If everyone thinks I’m a gimp, may
as well reap the benefits.
When I get home, far earlier than I intended, I see Rosie sitting on her porch with a beer in her hand. I may look different than I did a year ago, but
Rosie doesn’t. She’s wearing her tight jeans and a see-through pullover covering her tank top. She waves to me as I get out of my car.
“Hi, Matt.” Her voice no longer has that flirtatious edge that it had before I told her about my diagnosis. “How are you doing?”
“I’m okay,” I say.
Little did I know, that day last year when I turned her away was my last chance to have sex for the foreseeable future. I remember what Rosie said to
me before she left: If you ever change your mind, I’m still game.
I wonder if her offer still stands.
“Um.” I grip the handles of my crutches tighter, my heart pounding slightly in my chest. “I don’t suppose you want to… you know, finish that beer
inside?”
I nod in the direction of the door to my apartment. I’m sure she gets my meaning.
Rosie looks very surprised. She laughs, almost nervously. “Oh… um. The thing is, it’s getting late so… I was just about to…”
“No, that’s fine,” I say quickly, trying to preserve my dignity. “I didn’t realize how late it was.” I look away from her. “I’ll see you later, Rosie.”
Great. Apparently, I’ve become unfuckable.
The truth is though, I don’t want meaningless sex with Jessie or Rosie. Being with either of them would have been a release, but it would have been
depressing. I want Anna. Even though it might be impossible, I want that to happen. It’s all I want.
But will it ever happen?
Chapter 45: Anna
It takes me two hours to get ready for bed. On a good day.
My main concern is that somebody could get into the house during the night because I’ve forgotten to lock a door or window. So after I brush my teeth
for 121 seconds and wash my face (also for 121 seconds), I go downstairs to make sure all the windows are shut and locked. I jiggle the handles eleven
times each. By the end, my wrists are usually fairly achy.
I go back upstairs to wash my hands again. Then I go back downstairs to make sure the front and back doors are locked. I turn each lock eleven times
total. Then I wash my hands again. After that, I check every single one of the faucets to make sure they’re not leaking, I check the refrigerator and freezer
to make sure that they’re closed. And of course, to make sure all the lights are off.
If I’m lucky, that’s the end of it. But if I get it into my head that I left a light on or a faucet running or a window unlocked, I have to run downstairs and
start over again. This can easily take an hour or longer.
When I feel satisfied that everything downstairs is secure, I take a shower. Some people may shower in the morning, but I always shower at night
because it’s not clear how long it will take. If I allow the shower curtain to touch me or if my body brushes up against the tiles on the wall, I have to start
all over again because those are obviously contaminated. It can take anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour.
Tonight my ritual takes forever. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to get it out of my head that I’ve left something undone downstairs. I can’t seem to
focus and it’s all because of Matt. I can’t stop thinking about him.
After I make it through my shower, I linger in front of the full length mirror in my bedroom. Looking at myself naked isn’t something I usually do. But
now I stare at myself critically, frowning at my narrow hips and breasts that are still firm but decidedly smaller than average. If Matt were to see me naked,
would he like what he sees?
The thought of Matt seeing me naked doesn’t frighten me the way I would think it might. Instead, it sends a pleasant tingle down my spine.
I wonder what he looks like naked. A few times I’ve seen the tiniest amount of hair peeking out of the collar of his shirt when he’s taken his tie off at
the end of the work day. It makes me want to reach out and undo another button.
I sigh and turn away from my reflection. I go back to the bathroom, wash my hands again, then put on my nightgown. I wash my nightgown and
bedsheets daily to ensure that they’re not contaminated, and I also have special clean slippers that I only wear after my shower. It makes me feel that I am a
hundred percent safe and clean in my bed.
But of course, once I’m lying down, sleep eludes me.
Usually it’s thoughts of an unlocked door or light left on that keeps me awake. Tonight, it’s Matt. I wonder if he’s still out with his friends. No, it’s
surely too late for that. By now, he either went home by himself or with a woman.
I close my eyes and allow myself to imagine the woman Matt might have gone home with. She’d wear too much makeup and have lots of curves that
would make me look like a boy in comparison. That’s the sort of woman you meet in a bar. But Matt hasn’t been out with a woman in a long time, so I’m
sure he’ll be happy to have whoever shows him interest. He’ll take her home and then…
Oh God.
My throat closes up. I can’t think of Matt with another woman. It’s physically painful to imagine him kissing her and following her into her queen-
sized bed. I curl up in a bed, squeezing my eyes shut tightly against the image.
Perhaps he’s not with a woman. He might have gone home alone.
I reach for my phone that’s charging on my nightstand. I have Matt’s number programmed into it, but I’ve never had occasion to call him. I can’t even
imagine calling him now. But what if…
Could I send him a text message?
Just a friendly text asking him how his night went. That wouldn’t be inappropriate. Friends do that all the time, and Matt and I are indisputably friends.
And if he replies that he’s home, then I’ll be able to slumber in peace.
Of course, if he doesn’t reply, then I’ll be even more anxious.
After several more minutes of careful consideration and debate, I type into my phone: How was your night out?
There is nothing wrong or strange about sending a friend that text. It is simply a friendly inquiry. Matt surely won’t feel that I’m being invasive or
inappropriate. Before I can stress over it further, I hit the send button.
Then I wait.
After two minutes and fifteen seconds have passed, I start to get anxious. Matt is not responding to this text message. This must mean he’s with a
woman and his phone is lying abandoned in a pile of sweaty clothing somewhere. He’s probably lying on top of her, their bodies stuck together with
perspiration, his lips on hers.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m not going to think about this. Matt is entitled to do as he wishes. He does not belong to me.
Then my phone buzzes and my eyes fly open. I see Matt’s name at the top of the screen and I feel a flood of relief. He responded to me. That surely
means he’s alone.
It wasn’t too bad.
For several seconds, I hold the phone in my hand, smiling insipidly at the sight of Matt’s mundane words on the screen. He’s writing to me. He’s at
home, thinking of me, writing me a text message. I feel oddly close to my phone right now.
I write back: Meet anyone?
I bite my lip, wondering if I’ve gone too far. But I have to know.
Not really. Nobody worth mentioning.
I grip the phone tighter. So that means he’s certainly alone.
I write: I’m in bed. Are you?
Yep, he writes. Your text woke me up. Thanks a lot!
And then he adds a smiley emoticon at the end of the sentence. I have never used an emoticon in all my years of owning a cell phone, but before I can
stop myself, I text back an equally jubilant emoticon to him.
I will let you get back to sleep, I write to him.
We can talk if you want. I don’t mind.
I consider it. It would be nice talking to Matt on the phone, hearing his voice in my bedroom as I lie in bed. I could pretend that he’s next to me in bed
without all the worry and stress that would be associated with him actually being next to me in bed. But now that all the anxiety about Matt and another
woman has left my body, I feel drained. I’m ready for sleep.
We will talk tomorrow, I write.
Okay, he writes. Good night, Anna.
Good night, Matt.
And I sleep like a baby.
Chapter 46: Matt
I can’t sleep after talking to Anna.
She texted me. Anna never texts me. She only agreed to program my number into her phone “in case of an emergency.” And it’s nearly midnight. Why
was Anna lying in bed and thinking about me at midnight?
It’s hard not to let my imagination run away with that one.
I try jerking off, but it doesn’t relax me the way it usually does. It sure as hell doesn’t get thoughts of Anna out of my head. I wish I were with her right
now instead of alone in bed. I’d give anything to be lying next to her. Not even necessarily having sex with her or even making out with her (although that
would obviously be great) but just being next to her in bed, holding hands. I would give my right arm to hold Anna’s hand. (Although that might be self-
defeating.)
At around two in the morning, I make the decision: Fuck it, I’m going to ask her out to dinner.
Of course, the second I start getting close to her cubicle the next day, I second guess myself. Is there any chance in hell Anna would actually go out
with me? Am I going to ruin our friendship? Am I making a huge mistake just because I’m horny?
Oh well. Here goes nothing.
Anna’s face lights up the way it always does when I approach her. “Hi, Matt!”
“Hi,” I say. My hands gripping the handles of my crutches feel sweaty. That happens to me sometimes. “That was a surprise hearing from you last
night.”
“Oh.” Anna’s usually pale cheeks color. “I guess… I was worried that you might have… gotten in a car accident on the way home. So I wanted to
make sure you were okay.”
I grin at her in what I hope is a charming manner. I used to get girls to like me—maybe I can still do it. “You think I’m that bad a driver, huh?”
Anna sticks out her chin defiantly. “Motor vehicle collisions are the leading cause of death in men in your age group. It’s not inconceivable that I
might have worried.”
Sometimes Anna doesn’t understand the concept of flirty banter. It’s cute.
“So what are you up to?” I ask.
“I’m on a deadline,” Anna says. “I’ve been coding like a madwoman!”
I laugh. “You’ll have time for lunch with me though, right?”
“But of course,” she assures me vehemently. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
I pause a beat. Now is the moment. If there was ever a moment, this is it. I need to go for it.
Go for it, you wuss!
I swallow hard. “And how about dinner?”
Anna looks at me in confusion. “Well, I always eat three meals a day. Of course, breakfast is the most important. But I usually eat dinner too.”
“No.” I clear my throat. “I mean, dinner… with me.”
I look at her face, waiting for her answer. Please say yes, Anna. It’s me.
Please say yes, Anna. I love you.
Chapter 47: Anna
Matt has just asked me out on a date.
I knew this moment was coming for a long time now. I love Matt, and I have been increasingly convinced that he has feelings for me. Maybe not love.
Probably not love. But attraction, certainly. He would not be so kind to me, he would not spend every lunch with me, if there were not some sort of feelings
there.
Last night, I was terrified that he was with another woman. I was consumed with jealousy. I wanted Matt to ask me out. I wanted him to kiss me. To go
home with me.
And now here we are. He is asking me to dinner—the thing that I have longed for possibly since the day I first saw him smile at me, if I’m being
entirely honest with myself. When I imagined this moment, I felt certain that I would be able to look him in the eyes and tell him that I would love to go
out to dinner with him.
But now that this moment is here, I feel fear prickling at the back of my neck. How could we eat out for dinner when I haven’t been to a restaurant in a
decade? And what if he tried to touch my hand? What if he tried to kiss me?
Sweat breaks out on my palms.
“Matt,” I say, although I’m not sure what the next words out of my mouth will be. Yes or no. One of those two, unless there’s a third option I can
fabricate.
I can see the red in his ears creeping into his cheeks. He’s expecting an answer from me. He may already be regretting having asked.
“It’s just…” I clear my throat. “I don’t like restaurants. You know that.”
There. I’ve blamed it on restaurants. Nothing to do with Matt—it’s restaurants that are the source of difficulty.
Matt scrunches up his eyebrows. “I could come to your house then?”
Now that the restaurant is out of the picture, I should be okay. But I’m not. My heart is pounding in my chest and my hands are trembling. The thought
of Matt touching me is the scariest thing I can imagine. I tap on the top can on my tower eleven times. It doesn’t help.
He’s so cute. I want this so much. But as much as I want it, I’m terrified.
“I don’t…” I begin. “I just… I don’t generally have people over.”
Matt bites his lip. It’s obvious he’s starting to get it. “Or my house?”
“Oh no,” I blurt out in a voice that’s much more emphatic than I would have wanted it to be. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable.”
His face darkens. I’ve gone too far. I see that now. “You wouldn’t feel comfortable?” he says, the anger creeping into his voice.
I squeeze my fists together. “Matt…”
“Why wouldn’t you feel comfortable?” he goes on. “You’ll be with me. Do I make you uncomfortable?”
Yes. Sometimes. But less than anyone else I’ve ever known.
Matt drops his head, looking down at his braced legs and crutches. I feel compelled to jump up and hug him, although I’m certain that would be
interpreted the wrong way. And that’s not something I would do anyway.
“Forget it,” he mutters. “I’m sorry I asked.”
He looks at me one last time with a flash of hatred in his eyes. Over the last year, Matt has become the best thing in my life and now I’ve ruined it.
Arguably, he is the one who has ruined it by asking something of me that he should have known I could not give him, but I can’t blame him when he did
exactly what I’ve wanted him to do for so long. I love Matt. I want to go out to that dinner with him. I want to sit across from him at a restaurant and stare
into his eyes in the flickering candlelight. I’ve never wanted such a thing before, but I want it so badly now that it makes my chest ache.
Still, I can’t make myself tell him yes.
“I’m sorry, Matt,” I whisper.
He narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t be. You were just being honest.”
Before I manage another word of apology, Matt turns away from me and goes to his cubicle. I hear him sitting down heavily, then the sound of his
fingers on his keyboard. I wish I could take it back, but at the same time, I know that if I were to rewind time, I would do things exactly the same. And
that’s the worst part.
I want to be with Matt more than anything. But the thought of it sends me into a panic.
This is the first time in my life I’ve felt the extent of my sickness. Even all those times I raced around the parking garage, checking under every single
car, I never truly believed that my brain was worth fixing.
I’m sick. I’m sick and I need help.
So instead of getting back to work, I google psychiatrists in my area.
Chapter 48: Matt
Anna has rejected me.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m not surprised. But also, I am. I thought… Christ, I don’t know. I thought Anna and I had a connection. I thought she
felt… well, maybe not exactly as strongly as I do, but at least something. I thought she might think I was someone she would want to go out with.
I’m an idiot. Of course Anna Flint doesn’t want to go out on a date. That’s not her thing.
After Anna turns me down, I throw myself into my work. Luckily, I’ve got a big project I’m working on that’s consuming enough of my energy and
brain power that I can manage not to think about the Anna situation, and also the fact that I’ll probably never have sex again for the rest of my life. Unless I
pay for it.
I’ve been coding for an hour and a half straight when I feel the urge to go to the bathroom.
Dr. Dunne told me that bowel and bladder issues are not uncommon in people with MS. It was never an issue for me until very recently. In the last few
months, I’ve been noticing that when I need to go, I really need to go. Immediately. And considering getting to the bathroom (or anywhere) is not
something I can do quickly anymore, as soon as the urge hits, I act on it.
Except this time I’m so involved in my code that I postpone running to the bathroom. It’s become an ordeal now, and I’m still steamed about Anna. I
just want to get through a bit more before I get up.
And then it’s too late.
I can’t tell you how awful it is to be at work and feel that warmth spreading through your underwear and pants. And then look down and see piss stains
all over my tan slacks in a very recognizable pattern. I thought getting shot down by Anna was one of the worst moments of my recent life, but we might
have a new winner. I’m at work and I pissed my pants. I will never, ever live this down if anyone finds out.
But how the fuck am I going to get out of here without anyone noticing?
I can’t think of a way. I can’t. It’s not like I can sprint out of here quickly or anything. People are always walking down the aisles and everyone is
going to notice a prominent stain on my crotch. It’s impossible not to notice.
Christ, I don’t want to be known as the guy who wet his pants at work. Shit. Everyone already feels awkward enough around me.
I’m trying to figure out what the hell to do when I hear Anna’s voice behind me. “Matt?”
At first I’m scared she realized what I’ve done, but no, it’s impossible for her to know. I’m still facing my computer and my secret is still hidden from
her. So I keep my eyes pinned on the computer screen. “Yes?”
“Um,” she says. “It’s time for lunch…”
Yeah, there’s no way in hell I’m getting out of this chair. I don’t want Anna, of all people, to know I pissed myself. Christ, what will she think of me?
Of course, she’s already made it painfully clear she’s not interested in me.
“I’m kind of busy,” I say. “You go ahead without me.”
“But…” Anna’s voice gets very soft. “We always have lunch together…”
For Christ’s sake. “I told you that I’m busy. Okay?”
She’s quiet for a minute, but I know she’s still there. I can sense her hovering over me.
“Is this because I didn’t want to have dinner with you?” she asks.
No, Anna, it’s because I wet my fucking pants!
“No,” I say.
“Matt.” I hear her voice break. “Will you at least look at me?”
One thing I’ve learned about Anna Flint is that she does not let things go. Ever. She will stand here and bug me until I do what she wants or I drop
dead—whichever comes first. So finally, I turn around in my rolling chair.
I watch her face as her eyes connect with my crotch and see the stain there. It takes her about two seconds to put the whole thing together.
“Happy?” I snap at her.
Anna drops her eyes. “Oh,” is all she has to say. Then she returns to her cubicle.
I sigh and turn back around. I can’t even imagine what Anna, who is freaked out by germs in open cups, thinks about my peeing all over my station. I
bet she’ll be back tonight with her Lysol.
In the meantime, I still need to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do. All I can hope for is that maybe my pants will dry soon. Before Peter tells me
I need to show up at some mandatory meeting.
“Hey,” I hear Anna say.
I rotate my head slightly to look at her so I don’t have to expose my pants again. “What is it?”
She holds out a black sweater to me. “Here. You can wrap this around your waist.”
I stare at her.
“Take it,” she says. “How else are you going to get out of here?”
I take the sweater from her. It smells like Anna—that clean, detergent smell. Too bad it’s going to smell like urine soon.
“Thanks,” I say.
Anna nods and returns to her cubicle. I know she won’t mention this ever again and she won’t tell a soul.
Chapter 49: Anna
The psychiatrist’s name is Dr. Schultz. The office where he practices is different from most doctors’ offices that I’ve been to. When I open the front door, I
enter a dusky waiting area where a sign in black sharpie instructs me to press a button to alert the doctor that I’ve arrived. I select Dr. Schultz’s name from
among four other doctors and press the button, which lights up orange.
I suppose at this point I’m supposed to sit down, but the only available pieces of furniture are a flower-printed sofa and a wooden chair, both of which
are dusty beyond belief. They are absolutely disgusting, if I’m being honest. Next time I come (if there’s a next time), I will have to bring my Lysol. The
chair will be okay if I clean it.
Two other patients arrive in the waiting area before Dr. Schultz comes to collect me. I’d imagine they find it odd that I’m standing in the middle of the
room, my hands folded across my chest. Then again, this is a mental health practice. So perhaps this is perfectly normal behavior here.
Dr. Schultz appears at the open doorway like an apparition, and I know instantly that this is my doctor and not yet another patient. He’s tall with white
hair and a white beard that makes him appear very wise. He doesn’t wear a white coat or anything frightening like that, and instead wears a checkered shirt
and pea-green tie with corduroy pants that ride too high on his abdomen. When he sees me standing in the center of the room, a tiny smile touches his lips.
“Miss Flint?”
I nod wordlessly.
“Come with me.”
I follow him down a dim hallway, and enter his office. It’s small and cramped, and the couch inside is even older and dustier than the one in the
waiting area. I look at him in absolute horror. “I can’t sit there.”
He seems at a loss for words. Am I actually crazier than most of the people that come in here? That’s an unsettling thought.
“What’s wrong?” he asks me.
“The couch is dirty!” I feel tears springing to my eyes. They’re supposed to understand me in this place. What am I here for if he doesn’t understand
my problem?
We end up covering the seat of the couch in paper towels, which eats up the first ten minutes of my session. Although I suspect it’s been a revealing
ten minutes.
“I’m sorry about that,” Dr. Schultz tells me once I’ve settled myself gingerly on his filthy sofa. “I’ll have it cleaned for next time.”
If there’s a next time.
“Now, Miss Flint…” He pauses. “May I call you Anna?” I nod, glad that he asked rather than simply taking the liberty. “Anna, tell me what’s going
on.”
So I tell him. I tell him about the hours I spend each day scrubbing my house, my cubicle, the breakroom. I tell him about the terror I feel whenever
anyone tries to touch me. I tell him about my collection of cans, which I cannot abandon, despite the fact that it’s nearly gotten me fired on multiple
occasions.
“Have you ever seen a mental health counselor before?” Dr. Schultz asks me.
I nod. “Once, when I was a teenager, because my parents forced me. He gave me a medication, but I refused to take it.”
It was a terrible experience, one that I vowed I would never repeat. Yet here I am.
“Did they give you a diagnosis, Anna?” he asks.
“Yes,” I murmur.
“And what was it?”
My chest tightens at the memory. The child psychologist was named Dr. Patterson and he spoke in a condescending monotone. When he asked me
questions, he nodded at my responses like nothing I said surprised him in the slightest. Then at the end of the first session, he called my parents into the
room.
“I believe Anna has a form of autism,” Dr. Patterson said to my parents, without even looking at me. “She’s high functioning, obviously, but she has
all the characteristics of Asperger’s Syndrome. It explains her poor social skills, her obsession with routine, and her flat affect.”
I remember the room spinning around me. I was sixteen years old and it was horrifying to hear. I was not autistic. I couldn’t be. He was wrong.
But there were parts of it that seemed right.
“Anna?” Dr. Schultz says gently.
I squeeze my fists together and shift on the paper towels covering the couch. “He said that I… I have a high level form of autism.”
“Asperger’s,” he says.
I nod, pushing down a lump in my throat.
Dr. Schultz’s eyes meet mine. “Do you think that was a correct diagnosis?”
I shrug, not trusting myself to speak. “I have… many of the characteristics.”
“But you must realize,” he says, “that your symptoms are far more consistent with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. You have the classic obsessions
with cleanliness and germs, followed by the compulsion to do a ritual to relieve your anxiety, such as spraying down the room with Lysol or repeating an
act eleven times. You of course realize that the compulsion is meaningless, but that doesn’t change the anxiety you feel if you don’t do it.”
Yes. It’s true. Everything he’s saying is completely true.
“As for the Asperger’s diagnosis,” he says. My stomach twists into knots. “Although we’ve only just met, I think it’s unlikely. Clearly, you’re highly
intelligent in your focused field, which is a characteristic of the disease. On the other hand, you make excellent eye contact and seem to be reacting
appropriately to your situation—you’re clearly very distressed. I realize you’ve had social problems, but much of that could be due to your OCD.” He
pauses. “Plus, it should be said that highly intelligent people do tend to be more socially isolated. It doesn’t necessarily make you autistic. In young people,
it’s not uncommon for the two diagnoses to be confused, especially by a therapist who’s overly eager to make a diagnosis.”
The knot in my stomach untwists slightly.
“Tell me something, Anna,” Dr. Schultz says, looking me straight in my eyes. “You’re thirty-one years old and clearly have a lot of insight into your
condition. You’ve suffered a lot with your compulsions and have almost lost your job over them. Why are you only first seeking treatment now?”
I feel my cheeks growing hot. I don’t want to tell him, but there’s no point in lying. I’m here to get better, after all. “There’s a man,” I explain. “I’d like
to have a relationship with him, and… I can’t…”
Dr. Schultz doesn’t probe for more details. He simply nods. “I understand.”
I walk out of the office with a prescription for a medication called Zoloft, which he repeatedly reassures me has minimal side effects. I am haunted by
the thought of that dazed, glassy-eyed girl I saw at the psychiatrist’s office when I was a kid, but I still fill the prescription and swallow the first pill when I
brush my teeth that night.
Chapter 50: Matt
The parking garage in Dr. Dunne’s office is very full. I drive straight to the handicapped spots and all of them are taken, which isn’t entirely unusual at Dr.
Dunne’s. This would be a big problem if I had a wheelchair and needed the extra space, but luckily, I don’t. Even though it’s incredibly slow, I can park
further away in the lot and hoof it to the office. He does, at least, have a ramp, which is much easier than stairs.
I can’t help but think of the first time I came here though. All I had was that weak ankle and the stairs were no problem. Now, only three years later,
every step is a struggle.
Walking down the hallway of the building to Dr. Dunne’s practice, I see another guy from afar who seems to be going to the same place. He’s got
braces and forearm crutches the same way I do, but he looks like he’s walking much worse than I do. He looks very severely disabled, like he probably
ought to be using a wheelchair instead of walking and—
Aw fuck, that’s a fucking mirror.
Shit.
Christ, I can’t believe I look like that while walking. No wonder Jessie took off the other night. No wonder Rosie wouldn’t fuck me. I thought that
Anna at least said no because of her own issues, but now that I see myself as I must look to her, it would have been amazing if she’d said yes.
I stand there for a minute, feeling sorry for myself. I’d been avoiding mirrors like the plague recently (for just this reason), and I honestly had no idea
how I looked. I feel like shutting myself in my house and never letting anyone from the outside world see me ever again. My romantic life is definitely
over.
Okay, I need to get over this. At least I’m still on my feet. At least there’s that.
The waiting room for the neurology group makes me feel a lot better. This is the only place where I don’t feel like a spectacle with my braces and
crutches. There are at least two people in the waiting room who are more impaired than me. There’s one guy who’s maybe in his forties, who is in this huge
wheelchair with his arms strapped to the armrests. He seems to have some sort of mouth control for the chair. Despite the issues I’ve been having, I can’t
imagine how much that must suck, to have to be dependent on others for practically everything.
A nurse takes me to an examining room, and smiles kindly at me as I attempt to keep up with her. She’s got a blond ponytail that swings sexily as she
walks, and I can’t help but think she’s much too cute to be a nurse here, especially given the reason I’m here. My stomach sinks when she gets on her
computer and says to me, “So what’s the reason for your visit today?”
“Uh…” I say. Christ, this is humiliating. “It’s just… it’s getting harder and harder to…”
She raises her eyebrows at me.
“You know,” I mumble. “Make it to bathroom on time.”
“Oh!” she says. She recovers quickly from her initial surprise and then is very professional. “Okay then. Have you had any accidents?”
“Accidents?”
“Episodes of incontinence,” she clarifies.
I want to crawl behind the examining table—I truly do. “One. One time. That’s it.”
“Okay.” Her fingers dance on the keyboard, typing in my response. “Was it during the day or at night…?”
“The day.” At work. At fucking work.
She clicks on the keys again. “Are you wearing any protection?”
I frown at her. “Protection?”
“An incontinence brief?” she asks.
“You mean like a diaper?” I can’t hide my horror at her question. “No. No. Why? Do you think that I’ll need…?”
“Just asking,” she says quickly.
I answer the rest of her questions, but I can’t get that particular question out of my head. Every time I’ve been to Dr. Dunne’s office, he never has any
solutions for me. When he diagnosed me with MS, there were no treatments for me. When I complained of painful and bothersome muscle spasms, he gave
me a medication that does a better job making me tired (the last thing I need) than treating my muscle spasms. And now this. After he’s failed me so many
times, I’m losing hope.
He has to be able to help me this time. My life is difficult enough without having to worry about pissing myself when I’m in public. Please let there be
some magic pill that will help me.
Dr. Dunne comes into the room with a smile on his face this time. At least he doesn’t have any horrible news to deliver to me this time. At least, not
yet.
“So I hear that you’ve been having some incontinence,” is his opener.
“Just once,” I say quickly. Well, at least he’s not a hot girl.
“Bowel and bladder?” he asks.
“Just… bladder,” I mumble. “And like I said, just the one time. But… it’s always… you know, urgent.”
I endure a few more questions and Dr. Dunne decides to send me for some testing. I take that as a good sign. He’s not just throwing his hands up and
saying that this is something I’ll have to deal with forever.
“Before we do any urodynamic testing, I’d say my best guess is that you’re having bladder spasms,” Dr. Dunne says. “There are medications that can
help with that.”
My shoulders sag in relief. “Really?”
He nods. “I’ll give you a prescription for Ditropan and let me know how it works for you. You might need to go off the medication prior to testing
though.”
“That’s fine.”
Dr. Dunne rests a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Matt. I’m sure we can at least improve the issues you’re having.”
I want to hug him. I nearly do. It’s the first good news I’ve gotten in a long time.
Chapter 51: Anna
Matt hates me.
No, maybe he doesn’t hate me, but something has changed. There was a horrible chain of events—me telling Matt I would not have dinner with him
followed by his… unfortunate accident—and I wonder if that broke him. He doesn’t show up for work for two days after that and I am terrified that he has
terminated his employment. After what happened, I wouldn’t entirely blame him if he didn’t want to work next to me anymore. It would be perfectly
understandable.
Even though it would be devastating for me.
On the second day of Matt’s absence, I start to panic, certain he will never return. I consider sending him a text message, but the fear that he’ll fail to
respond overwhelms my desire to hear from him. Part of me wants to tell him about the Zoloft. I’ve been religiously swallowing those tiny white pills
every evening, in hopes that if I take enough of them, I’ll be able to go on a date with Matt without my body filling with terror.
Maybe soon I’ll be cured.
It’s rather hard to believe though.
That night, I brainstorm what I can do for Matt. I want him to know that I’m thinking about him, that I desperately want to be with him but right now I
just can’t. It has to be something out of the box, so to speak.
And that’s when I hit upon a brilliant idea.
When Matt shows up at work three days after the failed dinner invitation, I could not be more relieved. I smile brightly at him as he approaches my
cubicle, but I notice right away that he isn’t smiling himself. When he gets close enough to me, he thrusts a plastic bag in my direction.
“Here,” he mutters.
I eye the bag suspiciously. “What is it?”
“It’s your sweater,” he says.
The sweater I lent him to cover the stain on his pants. Did he wash it? Surely he washed it. But even so, it was covered in urine. What if he didn’t wash
it on a cycle that completely cleaned it? Not everyone uses the heaviest cycle.
“Did you… wash it?” I ask tentatively.
He stares at me. “For fuck’s sake, Anna. Yes, I washed it.”
I’d like to ask him about the specific cycle he used, but I suspect that he would not enjoy answering such a question. So I very tentatively take the bag
from him, being careful not to touch the contents. I’ll just throw it out when I get home.
I notice Matt rolls his eyes at me when I do that, which is something he doesn’t usually do. A lot of people roll their eyes at me, but Matt never does.
As I said, something has changed.
I hope what I’ve planned changes that.
I wait for a moment for Matt to go to his cubicle and get settled there before I hurry over to catch the look on his face when he sees the very small gift-
wrapped box lying in the center of his desk. I even tied a red ribbon around it.
Matt is sitting in his chair, gazing down at the box, looking rather perplexed but not displeased. “That’s a gift,” I explain to him. “It’s for you. From
me. I’m giving it to you!”
I probably didn’t need to explain to him how gifts work. Oh well.
“Um.” Matt scratches at his head like he’s not certain what to make of the whole thing. “Should I open it?”
“Yes!” I say. Maybe I do need to explain to him how gifts work. “Of course. That’s what you’re supposed to do with gifts.”
I catch a ghost of a smile on Matt’s face and my heart leaps. He’s excited. Maybe I’ve managed to make all of this right again.
I watch him working on the wrapping paper. I may have wrapped it too elaborately. It was so small that I felt it needed to be wrapped twice. And then
before I knew what I was doing, I had wrapped it eleven times.
Still, he’s taking an awfully long time.
“Jesus, Anna,” he says. “This is a lot of wrapping paper.” He lifts his brown eyes to look at me. “There is a box inside here right? It’s not just layer
after layer of nothing but wrapping paper?”
“No,” I say.
Such a thing would be unheard of in human culture! Although I’ve read that there are male spiders who attract a female mate by presenting her with a
fly wrapped in silk, but eventually evolved to use larger and larger silk packaging to deceive the female into thinking she was getting a bigger fly. And
eventually, the male spiders evolved to be deceptive enough to simply give the female a large ball of silk with absolutely nothing inside—the ultimate
deception to trick her into participation in the mating ritual.
Of course, as I’m not interested in a mating ritual, such a deception would be of little use to me.
It takes Matt several minutes to get the wrapping paper unraveled. What lies underneath is a simple white box. He stares at it, frowning.
“Open it!” I say.
He lifts open the lid to the box and peers inside. He takes out the small scrap of paper I’ve left for him. A paper with ten digits written on it.
“It’s my phone number,” I explain to him.
Matt looks baffled. “I already have your phone number, Anna.”
“Yes, but…” I smile brightly at him. “I thought that… well, you know how you wanted to have dinner together? And we can’t go to a restaurant
because of the germs. And we can’t do it at your house or my house because… well, you know. So I thought maybe you could call me and we could have
dinner together, but from two separate places.”
Matt’s mouth falls open. I’d like to say he seems happily surprised, but I don’t think he is. He doesn’t seem particularly happy at all.
“Isn’t that a good idea?” I press him.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Great idea.”
“Maybe we could do it tonight?” I say hopefully.
His shoulders sag slightly and he shakes his head. “Yeah, I don’t know. Not tonight. Maybe… some other time.”
Matt didn’t like my present. I recognize that—I’m not, after all, completely oblivious. But it’s all that I’m able to give him right now.
Chapter 52: Matt
I meet Erin for dinner at a restaurant midway between our respective houses. Somehow in the last year, I’ve become friends with my sister. It might be the
only good thing to come out of getting MS. Erin says we’ve gotten closer because I’ve “finally grown up,” but I think we both know what it was: I can’t
chase girls anymore because… I can’t chase anything anymore.
We always go to the same restaurant, which is my fault. Lately, I’ve become a lot more reluctant to try out new things. I don’t want to get to a new
restaurant and find out there are a bunch of stairs I need to deal with. Or carpeting. Or there’s some secret back handicapped entrance I need to find. I just
want to go to the same place that I know is okay, where everyone knows me and there are no surprises. Erin teases me that I’m getting to be an old man.
Which makes sense, because I feel like an old man these days.
When I get to the restaurant, Erin is already there with my niece Haley, who is now nearly a year and a half. Erin is sitting in a chair, waiting for me,
while Haley sits happily on her lap, sucking her little thumb. When Haley sees me, she hops out of my sister’s lap and toddles over to me happily.
“Matt!” she yelps as she points at me.
My name is one of only a dozen or so words she can say. It’s flattering. That or my name is easy and fun to say.
“Hi, Haley,” I say, wishing I could pick my niece up and swing her in a circle while she giggles the way I’ve seen my father do. But she seems to like
me anyway. Or at least, she likes saying my name.
“Isn’t she walking amazing?” Erin says.
Yeah, she is. But I don’t love having it pointed out to me that Haley is just going to get better at walking while my own gait continues to deteriorate.
By the time she’s able to run, I might be… well, I don’t want to think about it.
“They’re holding a table for us,” Erin tells me. “I made a reservation.”
I glance down at my watch. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re on time,” she says with a grin. “I always add ten minutes to the time you say you’re going to show up.”
I stick my tongue out at her, which is the sort of immature thing you can only do around your sister.
We get a table right near the entrance, because like I said, the staff here knows us already. They get a high chair set up for Haley and a bunch of
multicolored crayons for her, which she proceeds to shove right in her mouth.
“There was a time when you would have said a mother who let her child eat crayons was being negligent,” I point out to Erin.
She sighs. “Yes, those were simpler times.”
Haley hiccups a fire engine red bubble.
“Have you talked to Mom lately?” Erin asks me.
I cringe. “I’ve been trying to avoid it.”
Recently, my parents have started a gentle campaign to get me to move back home. The campaign started when Mom surprised me at home and saw
me with my new forearm crutches before I was quite ready for that to happen. They’re not being too pushy about it yet, but Mom is always listing reasons
why it would be so great for me to live with them.
The reasons mostly involve free cooking and cleaning. As well as the obvious social benefits of being a twenty-nine-year-old guy living with your
parents.
“You’re not considering it, I hope,” she says.
“Are you kidding me?” I shake my head. “Not a chance in hell.”
Erin grins. “Mom is really persuasive…”
There is nothing in the world that could ever persuade me to move back in with my parents. It just can’t happen.
Erin and I order food, and chat about various things while Haley eats about three crayons. It’s hard to believe that we used to dislike each other for
such a long time. She’s awesome. I’m glad she’s my sister and that I’ve got her to talk to. Especially now that a lot of my former friends seem to have
disappeared.
“So how are things going on the girls front?” Erin asks me.
I groan. “How do you think?”
“Don’t be so defeatist,” she scolds me. “You’re still fairly cute. I’m sure you could convince at least one young lady to go out with you.”
“Don’t be so sure,” I mutter.
She winks at me. “What about Anna? How are things going with her?”
A year ago, it would have been unthinkable, but I actually told my sister all about Anna. About how weird she is and how I like her anyway. I had to
tell somebody.
“You know what’s cute?” Erin says. “The way you get all red and shy when you talk about her. I’ve honestly never seen you this infatuated with a girl
before. Like, ever.”
“Fat lot of good it does me,” I say.
I explain to her about Anna’s phone date idea. About how after she shot down my dinner invitation, her suggestion was that we talk on the phone while
eating dinner. When I first understood what she was suggesting, I was absolutely furious. Did she actually think that was going to be good enough?
Then when I got over feeling angry, I just felt depressed. My crush on Anna is so pointless. She’s never going to be able to give me what I want.
I mean, a phone date? What the hell?
“That’s so sweet though,” Erin says. “She wants to go out with you so badly.”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “Maybe I should just move on. I have enough issues myself without dealing with Anna’s issues.”
“I think you should do the phone date.”
A few years ago, I never would have considered something like this. But now, I’m actually thinking about it. After all, it’s not like I’ve got anything
better to do.
Chapter 53: Anna
The phone date was a stupid idea.
I thought… I don’t know. I thought that Matt would be excited about it. Even though we wouldn’t be physically close, he’d realize that I still wanted to
go out with him. Except it didn’t work that way at all. I can’t stop thinking about that disappointed look on his face when he opened my present.
Tonight is Sunday and every Sunday I make myself salmon with a side of wild rice. I season the salmon with a bit of salt and pepper, then cook it in
the frying pan, skin side down, then cover the pan to steam it. It’s both delicious and healthy. It’s the sort of meal that I would cook for Matt if he ever
came to my house.
Right now, Matt coming to my house seems very unlikely. Impossible, really.
I wash all my dishes before I use them, even if they have been through the dishwasher. I feel like between the washing and their actual use, they’ve
been exposed to the elements and therefore contaminated, so they need a second washing. I spend a lot of time washing dishes. One thing I’ve become self-
conscious about is my hands and how raw they have become from spending so much time washing things.
Once my food is cooked, I bring my plate to the dining area to eat. Generally, I eat in silence. Usually I spend this time thinking about a piece of code
that’s been giving me problems. Occasionally, I put on some classical music. I don’t understand why people feel the compulsion to talk or read or watch
television while they eat. I like my silence.
I am two bites into my salmon when the phone rings.
I’m irritated by the fact that I have to abandon my warm food to address this phone call. Unfortunately, leaving a call unanswered is something my
brain will simply not allow me to do. So I find my phone in the living room to see who is calling.
It’s Matt.
My irritation turns to excitement mixed with trepidation. Matt is calling me. Why is Matt calling me?
I snatch up the phone and press the green button to accept the call. “Matt?”
“Hi.” It’s a slightly tinny version of Matt’s voice. “How are you doing?”
He sounds nervous. As nervous as I feel.
“I’m well,” I reply. “And you?”
“Great,” Matt says. He coughs. “So… um, I’m having dinner now, so…”
I’m so excited and happy, I could literally cry. I hate when people incorrectly use the word “literally,” but let me assure you that there are tears in my
eyes.
“I’m eating too, actually!” I say. I bring the phone over to the table where I’m eating so that Matt can be next to me. “What are you having?”
“Swedish meatballs.”
“Did you make them?”
“In the microwave, yeah,” he says. “It’s a TV dinner.”
A TV dinner! If he came here, he would never eat a TV dinner! Of course, I suppose him not being here is my fault.
“You shouldn’t eat TV dinners,” I scold him. “They have way too much sodium. It’s bad for your blood pressure.”
“My blood pressure is the least of my problems,” he says.
I suppose so.
“Listen,” Matt says slowly. “I’ve got an idea.”
My stomach churns slightly. If that idea is him coming over here, I’m going to have to say no. And I don’t want to do that. “Okay…”
“Maybe while we eat,” he says, “we could do FaceTime.”
FaceTime. Okay, I could handle that. It might be nice, actually.
“Yes,” I say. “Let’s do it!”
We end the call and I find a picture frame to prop my phone up on. When Matt calls me back, I accept his FaceTime request. And there he is. His kind
brown eyes, staring into mine.
“Nice to see you,” he says.
I smile. “Nice to see you too. It’s like we’re across the dinner table from each other!”
Matt returns my smile. “Yeah, sort of. I like that I get to look at you.”
This time I laugh. “You do? Why?”
“Because…” Matt’s voice lowers a few notches. “Because you’re beautiful, Anna. I could look at you all day. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve
ever known.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“I…” I stammer. “I think that you’re… um… also… um…”
Matt bats his eyelashes at me. “Do you think I’m beautiful too, Anna? You can be honest.”
I laugh again as the gravity of his previous statement lifts slightly. I’ve never had anyone tell me I’m beautiful before. I don’t think I’m unattractive or
anything, but to have a man say something like that to me is a different thing entirely.
And I’m very glad that man is Matt.
Year Five
Chapter 54: Matt
As I sit in the waiting room to see Dr. Dunne, I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
It’s been four years since he diagnosed me with MS. He predicted that in five years, I wouldn’t be able to walk anymore. Well, I’m still walking.
Exclusively.
But barely. Walking has become beyond difficult for me. My right leg is so weak that I practically just drag it along behind me when I walk. It’s so
difficult that I showed up early to my appointment to ensure I’d get a handicapped spot, because I couldn’t contemplate walking across the parking garage.
Stairs are not just difficult—they’re impossible. I hardly ever shop anymore because I get groceries delivered, but when I do, I always use the motorized
cart.
At home, I use a walker exclusively. It’s easier than dealing with my crutches. But I’d never in a million years use it in public. It makes me feel like
I’m an eighty-year-old man. But it’s fine if I need to get to the bathroom from my couch. Nobody else needs to know.
I only go to work twice a week, and the effort exhausts me. The other five days of the week, I don’t leave my apartment. I use my walker to get to my
couch, where I work on my computer and watch television. I only get up to get meals or go to the bathroom. I can’t even remember the last time I’ve gone
out to a restaurant or done anything social outside of my apartment. Rosie brings me my mail.
When the nurse calls my name to see Dr. Dunne, it takes me a good minute to get to my feet. I see that the hallway outside of the examining rooms has
been carpeted, and now I’m worried. Carpeting loves to snag my feet.
The nurse is patient. She gives me time to make my way down the hallway, but I can tell it’s pissing her off. I don’t blame her.
Then when I’m two feet away from the examining room, I fall. I almost catch myself, but I don’t. Luckily, it’s on carpeting, so I’m not horribly hurt or
anything, but the nurse cries out, and suddenly about five people are surrounding me.
“I’m okay,” I keep saying. “I’m fine. Really.”
I need two people to help me get back on my feet again. I feel like an idiot.
So it’s not exactly a surprise when Dr. Dunne comes into the room, and the first thing he says to me is, “Why don’t you use your wheelchair to come
to appointments?”
“I don’t have a wheelchair,” I tell him.
He looks at me in surprise. “You need one then. I’ll make you a therapy appointment to get you measured and trained.”
“No, thanks,” I say.
Dr. Dunne folds his arms across his chest. “Matt. You need a wheelchair. This is ridiculous. I can’t understand your objection.”
He can’t? He doesn’t understand why I’d want to give up on walking?
As if reading my mind, he says, “You don’t have to use it all the time. Just for longer distances.”
Right. Just for longer distances. The same way I was just going to use a cane for longer distances. No, I know that once I get that wheelchair, it’s going
to be the end of my time on my feet. And I’m not ready for that to happen.
“Maybe,” I say.
“Matt…”
I look away from him. “Fine. I’ll get the chair.”
I’ll let him order me a chair, just to end this conversation. But I’m not going to use it. I’ll stuff it in my closet just to say that I have it, but I’m going to
stay on my feet. I can’t possibly get much worse than this.
Chapter 55: Anna
At work today, Matt is very quiet. I can tell there’s something on his mind but I have no idea what.
I wish I could say my relationship with Matt has progressed, that we’re officially boyfriend and girlfriend. It hasn’t. Matt and I still have not kissed.
We have not held hands. We haven’t eaten a meal together outside of our lunches. The thought of being close to him still sends me into a panic.
That said, we eat lunch together every time Matt comes to the office. He still waits with me until everyone has left so that he can escort me downstairs
in the elevator. And every single night, with few exceptions, we FaceTime each other during dinner. I even bought an iPad so that I could see his face
better when we do it. It’s like he’s with me. Except not really.
I think about Matt all the time. In my head, he is my boyfriend. But I also realize that he absolutely is not my boyfriend. That I need to get a lot better
before that can happen.
I said all this to Dr. Schultz, who then increased my dose of Zoloft. I’m scratching the maximum dosage. We’re thinking about adjunct medications.
I’ve also got a bottle of Xanax, which I’m supposed to use for anxiety attacks and I use it more than I’d like to admit. I worry that I’m turning into a junkie.
“Would you like to get lunch?” I ask Matt as I stand over him in his cubicle. It is 10:40 a.m. on the dot.
“Yeah,” Matt mutters, swiveling his chair away from his computer screen. “Why not?”
Matt reaches for his crutches. That is one thing that has changed—Matt’s walking has gotten much worse. He leans very heavily on his crutches, and
he drags his right foot behind him. A few times I’ve been scared that I’d have to catch him.
He’s still supposed to have another year, if his doctor’s prognosis is correct. One more year of walking, at least. One more year to be able to do the
prayer 121 times and save him. I’m currently on 89. I’m so close. And I know I’ve got to get it right because I don’t believe Matt has another year when I
see him walk. Truth be told, I believe he’d be better off in a wheelchair right now.
Matt follows me to the break room, and he’s very, very slow. I take small steps, waiting for him to catch up with me. He used to apologize for his
slowness, but now we take it as a given. He can’t apologize every day. Anyway, I’m used to slowing down my pace to match his.
I’ve gotten in the habit of packing a lunch for Matt as well as for myself. I always make myself the same turkey sandwich, but I’ve been mixing things
up for him. Sometimes I make him turkey, but other days I might make ham or chicken or roast beef. I’ve also been mixing up the cheeses. Matt says his
favorite is provolone. I’ve found that I quite enjoy making food for Matt.
I might enjoy it more in my own home. But we’ll never know.
Matt gets himself a drink while I unpack his sandwich for him. Matt sets his glass carefully on the table, then falls into a chair with a resounding plop.
“Christ,” he comments.
“Are you okay?” I ask him.
He nods. “Yeah, just sort of… sick of it. Sick of it all.”
I know what he means. He’s sick of his body failing him. The same way I’m sick of my brain failing me.
Matt takes a sip from his water. “By the way, I’m sorry about this.”
“Sorry about what?”
He gestures at his cup. “Open water cup. I forgot my water bottle at home.”
I stare at his open cup in surprise. Odd as it sounds, I didn’t even notice it. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it. I always notice everything. A picture can be
hanging off in its frame by two millimeters and I would notice it.
That reminds me. I haven’t adjusted my picture frames in a while.
Maybe the Zoloft is actually working.
On a whim, I reach out to put my hand on top of Matt’s. But the second my skin touches his, I feel that familiar panic rising up in my chest. After all,
he was just drinking from an open cup of water! I can’t touch him.
So I yank my hand away.
Matt takes the whole thing in without commenting. He doesn’t even seem surprised. He’s used to me by now. He’s accepted that I can’t touch him or
be physically close to him. But I do wish it could be different.
Chapter 56: Matt
It’s a few weeks later that Kelly brings me my first wheelchair. It’s not the kind people use in the hospital, but something sleeker with red trim and a single
footplate in the center. She measured me for it and asked me questions about the design, which I had answered with complete indifference, knowing I’d
never use the damn thing. Who cared if it was red or blue or if it had a rigid or foldable frame?
Kelly surprises me by sitting in the chair and wheeling over to me, in what is apparently a live demo. I know she’s trying to show me that it isn’t so
bad, but part of me hates her for doing that. I don’t like that she’s cruising around in that chair like it’s not so bad when she’s able to get up out of it and
walk normal at any time.
“Wanna try it out?” she asks me, as she rises to her feet.
I give the chair a sideways glance. “Not really.”
“Matt…”
“Fine, fine,” I grumble. I eye it again, trying to figure out the best way to get inside.
“Let me show you how to transfer,” she says. “I’m basically going to teach you to transfer like you’re a paraplegic, because you essentially are at this
point.”
“I could use a walker to stand and then shift over,” I say.
“I think my way will be more practical,” Kelly tells me. “And you’ll still be able to do it if you can’t stand anymore.”
I wince. She says it like it’s an inevitability that I won’t be able to stand anymore someday.
She shows me how to transfer by grabbing on to the side of the wheelchair and shifting my body over using the strength in my arms. Good thing my
arms have gotten a lot stronger in the last four years. Even so, it isn’t easy. Kelly hangs onto me the whole time and probably does most of the work.
And then I’m in the chair.
The second I get positioned, my stomach churns. I can’t believe I’m sitting in a wheelchair—my wheelchair. I swore I wouldn’t let this happen.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I mumble. I lean forward, pressing my face into my hands.
Kelly rushes off to get me a trough. I gag, but I don’t throw up. But I still feel ill.
“I don’t want to be in this wheelchair anymore,” I say.
I start to try to get up, but I can’t. My crutches aren’t within reach, and the footplate makes it hard to get up. At this point, I’m starting to panic and I’m
about to hurl myself at the floor. Kelly finally has me grab her around the neck, then basically lifts me out of the chair, back onto the bench.
When I’m safely out of the chair, I wipe sweat off my brow. I can’t believe I had a panic attack from sitting in a wheelchair.
“Are you okay?” Kelly asks me, peering at my face.
“Fine,” I manage.
She looks at me for a minute, then sighs. “I think maybe we need to get you used to this gradually.”
I shake my head. “I can walk just fine.”
“Are you kidding me, Matt?” Kelly folds her arms across her chest. “You can barely walk. You look like you’re struggling with every step. It’s fine if
you want to do it sometimes for exercise or bone health, but you should be using the wheelchair as your primary method of mobility.”
I look down at my hands.
“I know it’s hard,” she says gently. “I know you were hoping to stay out of the wheelchair for a while. But it’s not that bad. I think you’ll be surprised
how much more mobile you are once you have the wheelchair. How much more freedom you have. I mean, when is the last time you decided not to do
something just because you didn’t feel like you could walk that far?”
All the fucking time.
“Think about it, Matt,” she says.
No. I can’t. It’s too soon. It’s too soon.
Chapter 57: Anna
When I get to work this morning, Peter Glassman is waiting for me at my cubicle. He’s wearing his light blue dress shirt that is becoming too small for his
slowly expanding gut. Gaps between the buttons are barely concealed by tie.
“Anna,” he says. “My office. Now.”
What have I done this time? I can’t recall any recent executives whose hands I’ve refused to shake. There have been no major incidents. Things have
been, for the most part, quiet. Peter hasn’t yelled at me in several months, even though he looks like he’s revving up for something big.
When I get into Peter’s office, I’m horrified by the disarray. He’s got papers stacked all over his desk, and the photo of his family that he keeps there is
knocked off-kilter. He’s even got some papers on the floor, and his wastepaper basket is overflowing. Moreover, the two chairs he keeps in front of his
desk are completely unaligned. Before I can even sit, I fix the chairs to line them up with his desk. And then I start fixing his picture frame, because I just
have to.
“Anna, stop cleaning my office!” Peter snaps at me.
His face is bright red and there’s a new vein standing out in his forehead. I sit down obediently before he has that heart attack I’ve been waiting for
over the last four years.
Peter sighs and his face turns a more natural color. He slides into the seat behind his desk and he runs a hand through the withering strands of hair that
barely even constitute a combover anymore. “Anna, you have to get rid of those cans.”
Before I can protest, Peter raises his hand. “It’s not negotiable. One of our vice presidents saw your cubicle and said that it was unacceptable. This is
not me talking, Anna.”
I feel my pulse starting to accelerate. Just when I thought I might be getting better, this is the worst possible thing that could have happened. I can’t get
rid of my cans. I can’t. Peter knows that.
“Anna,” he says firmly. “If you don’t clean up those cans, I’m going to have to let you go. I’m sorry it’s come to this.”
The thought of losing my job doesn’t frighten me. It might actually be a good thing. I’ve explored my options and I’m certain I could pick up plenty of
freelance works. I might even make more money doing freelance, and I would never even have to leave my home. Benefits might be an issue, but I’m sure
I’d figure it out.
But I don’t want to lose Matt. If I didn’t work here, how would we see each other?
“All right, Peter,” I say. “I’ll get rid of the cans.”
Chapter 58: Matt
I go to work two days every week, and spend the rest of the week working from home. Peter actually offered to let me stay at home more, but I feel like if I
did that, I’d become one of those weird people who has no contact with the outside world. Especially considering I’m nearly at that point right now.
Work keeps me sane. Even if a lot of people barely talk to me anymore.
But Anna does.
When I hobble into work this morning, I see Anna as I’m heading to my own cubicle. She gives me a huge smile. I definitely wouldn’t call Anna my
girlfriend, but we’re something more than friends. We talk on the phone nearly every night. I know all about her parents, her sister, her interests. I’ve never
been in her house though. I’ve never kissed her. I’ve never even held her hand.
It’s a complicated relationship.
I’m being incredibly patient with this girl. It helps that I can’t imagine anyone else being willing to go out with me. Girls treat me like I’m either
invisible, contagious, or five years old.
“Matt!” she says, jumping out of her seat when she sees me. Some days I’m convinced she might hug me or something like that, but she never does.
Don’t laugh, but I fantasize about just touching her. I jack off thinking about us holding hands.
Today I notice that Anna has a pained look on her face. Her face is paler than usual and her eyes are red-rimmed.
“Is everything okay?” I ask her.
She shrugs. “Peter was yelling at me over the cans again.”
Since the episode with Calvin, Anna has managed to rebuild her tower of cans. It’s gotten back to the level of being clearly unacceptable. Sometimes I
wonder if I should sit Anna down and have a serious talk with her about the cans.
“That’s terrible,” I say instead.
“He told me I have to get rid of them,” she says, “or else I’m fired.”
I stare at her in surprise. Peter has been yelling about those cans for years, but I never thought he’d give her an ultimatum like that. Despite how angry
he gets at her, I know Peter likes Anna and he thinks she’s a genius (which she is).
“So…” She looks down at the cans. “I’m going to bring them home tonight. Well, some of them. Some I might keep in a drawer. And maybe I’ll throw
away some of them. Unless…” She lifts her eyes to look at me. “Do you want to take some of them home?”
“Um…” I don’t. I mean, I do and I don’t. I don’t actually want the cans. Who would? I mean, besides Anna. But I do want to take them because I
know it would make her happy.
Except how the hell am I going to get them to my car? Carrying a bunch of cans is just not a possibility for me.
Maybe Anna figures that part out, because she says to me, “How about if I put one in your desk drawer? So you can see it and think of me?”
“Sure,” I say, relieved. “Of course.”
I sit down and get to work while Anna dismantles her tower of cans. I’ve got a meeting today at ten o’clock and I have to plan my whole day around it.
I know this sounds bad, but I usually start heading to a meeting about thirty minutes prior, because the conference room is all the way down the hall. It
would probably take most people about sixty seconds to get there, but it takes me significantly longer than that. I don’t want to worry about having to rush
and accidentally falling. Also, I can’t go to the bathroom during the meeting, so I have to go right before. Which means walking to the bathroom—another
long trek for me.
Maybe this is what Kelly was talking about when we talked about how I’d have more mobility if I used a wheelchair.
Still.
At 9:30 a.m., I grab my crutches with the intention of heading for the meeting. I thread my forearms through the holes, grab the handles, and plant
them on the ground. Except somehow, it’s harder to get up than it usually is. I rock back and forth, trying to gain some momentum. And… nothing.
Shit.
I keep trying to get out of my chair, doing everything I can without risking falling out of my chair onto the ground. I don’t know what’s going on, if
maybe the chair is lower than usual or what, but I can’t seem to get up. If I had my walker, I’d be able to get up because I’d have more leverage, but the
crutches don’t give me the same stability.
It’s 9:40 now. I need to figure out how to get up and get to this meeting. Even if I missed the meeting though, I’d still eventually need to figure out
how to get out of this chair. But how?
I look at the wall of my cubicle. Before I got my cane, I used to sometimes hang onto the walls of cubicles as I walked to keep from losing my balance.
Maybe I could grab on to the wall of my cubicle to help pull myself to my feet. Of course, that’s a lot of weight to rest on what is a pretty thin wall. What if
it collapses?
I roll my chair over to the wall of the cubicle. I grab the top of it, testing it to see how strong it feels. Not very.
I’ve got to get up somehow. And the crutches aren’t enough. I’ve got to get help.
I take out my phone and locate Calvin’s number. I send him a text message: Could you come help me with something?
A minute later, I am still glued to my chair, and Calvin is standing over me, a concerned look on his face. He’s wearing a blue dress shirt and khaki
slacks, and he looks so healthy and athletic. He doesn’t look like someone who needs thirty minutes to walk to a meeting. I really, really don’t want to tell
him what’s wrong. But what choice do I have?
“You okay, Matt?” he asks.
I take a deep breath. “I need help standing up.”
“Oh…”
My cheeks burn. “I don’t know why, but I just can’t… you know…”
Calvin nods. “Sure. What do you want me to do?”
I hadn’t thought about it. “I guess… just grab the back of my pants, and I’ll grab onto your neck.”
Calvin leans forward and I put my arms around his neck. I feel really helpless. Then he reaches behind me and grabs onto my pants by the waistband.
He’s able to lift me easily, without even grunting. And once I’m on my feet, I’m fine. I grab my crutches and then I’m fine. But I can’t look my former best
friend in the eyes.
“Are you going to be okay, Matt?” he asks me. “Will you need my help again?”
I shake my head no. Although the truth is, maybe I will. If I couldn’t get up now, what the hell am I going to do the rest of the day?
I know what I need to do.
I need to call Kelly and pick up my wheelchair.
Chapter 59: Anna
I pack up all my cans in a cardboard box that I find in the supply room. I fill the box to the brim with baked beans and sweet peas. I put them all in there
except for two.
The first can I keep is the jellied cranberries. It’s the one that Matt bought for me. It’s my favorite of all the cans, even though it’s not one I would have
picked out for myself. It doesn’t speak to me in any way. But it’s a gift from Matt, so that makes it very special. I’m going to put it in my desk drawer so
that I can access it any time I need to.
The second can that I put aside is the one I’m giving to Matt. I put a lot of thought into this. I wish I had access to my entire collection to choose from,
but this will have to do.
I finally select a can of fruit cocktail. I love the colors in the fruits in the picture, contrasting with the green of the background. It’s my second favorite,
after the cranberries.
I decided not to wait till the end of the day to give Matt the can. It’s around three and I see him sitting in his cubicle with his crutches laced through his
forearms. He’s rocking back and forth, his crutches planted on the ground. His face is slightly red.
“Are you going somewhere?” I ask him.
He looks up at me, a guilty expression on his face. “I, um… I’ve got an appointment.”
I hold up the fruit cocktail can. “I brought you this.”
Matt puts down his crutches so that he can take the can from me. He looks at it for a moment, rolling it in his palms. “Thanks, Anna.”
He puts it in the top drawer of his desk. Then he looks at his crutches, a pained expression on his face.
“Do you… need help?” I ask him.
Please say no. Please say no.
“No,” Matt sighs. “I can manage.”
And that’s when I realize that Matt genuinely doesn’t have much time left. This is my last chance to get the prayer right. If I don’t perform it correctly
this time, I will have no more chances.
Chapter 60: Matt
Kelly fits me in after I explain what happened to me. Not only does she fit me in, but when I arrive at the therapy center, I’m shocked when I see her
standing there at the entrance. I pull over next to her and roll down the window of my car. “I need some time,” I tell her. “I’ll meet you inside.”
“How are you going to get out of your car?” she retorts.
I realize with a sinking feeling that she’s probably right. If I was struggling to get out of my chair at work, getting out of the car is going to be even
harder.
“Park your car and I’ll meet you,” she says.
And that’s how we end up practicing car transfers.
I leave my crutches in the car. I have a feeling that I’ll probably be retiring them after today. I can still walk with my walker, but the crutches are just
not realistic anymore.
I try to stifle any residual feelings of panic as I wheel my chair next to Kelly as we go to the therapy center. This isn’t awful. It’s actually much better
than struggling to walk the distance from the parking spot to the entrance. It’s so fast compared to what I’ve become used to. Until…
I’m wheeling along and all of a sudden, I’m stuck. My chair won’t budge. The small front wheels of my chair have gotten wedged in a tiny little rut in
the sidewalk. I can’t move at all. Every time I push on the rims, I’m just spinning in place.
Kelly hasn’t even noticed and is striding forward. “Hey!” I yell. “I got stuck.”
She comes back and sees my dilemma. I’m feeling more and more frustrated. Here I was thinking for a moment that this chair would give me more
freedom, and then one minute later, I’m completely stuck. It wouldn’t have even occurred to me this could happen.
“You need to do a wheelie,” she tells me.
She demonstrates the motion I’m supposed to make with my wheels to lift the front wheels out of the rut. It’s not helpful. I can’t do it. I can’t fucking
do it. I’m getting so frustrated, I want to throw myself out of the chair and crawl to the entrance. Finally, Kelly grabs the back of my chair so that the
wheels are lifted out, and I’m free. But the whole episode leaves me feeling anxious about navigating this chair on my own.
In the gym, we spend over an hour practicing transfers. At first I was insistent we should use a walker for the transfers, but Kelly pointed out that
wasn’t going to be practical outside of my home. While I’m transferred out of the chair, sitting on a mat, Kelly uses my wheelchair to show me how to do
wheelies. I practice that too, until I feel confident enough that I probably won’t get stuck in a tiny rut again.
Kelly walks me to my car again and shows me how to disassemble the chair so that I can stash it in the seat next to me. We practice taking it apart and
putting it back together. I feel exhausted by the end of it, and not at all confident that I can do any of this on my own.
“You’re going to be okay, Matt,” Kelly tells me. “We’ll practice again tomorrow.”
When I get back in my car for the final time at the end of my session, I see my crutches and I want to throw them out the window. I don’t think I’ll
ever be able to use them again—I can’t risk a repeat of what happened today at work. I’ll use my wheelchair out of the house, and in the house, I’ll walk
with my walker.
I’m going to continue to walk. I refuse to lose that ability. I know it sounds dumb, but I feel like it’s part of what makes me a person.
Over the next few days, I continue practicing with Kelly. It gets to the point where I feel a lot more comfortable doing transfers. She says it will
continue to get easier with practice. Fortunately, my arms are already very strong from crutching myself around for the last year, so I’m not starting from
zero.
I finally go back to work the week after Calvin had to lift my sorry ass out of my chair. And I’m in my wheelchair. I don’t have crutches or braces or
any back-up. I’m in my wheelchair for the entire day.
I park in one of the handicapped spots in the office lot, and this time I’m appreciative of the extra space next to the parking spot. I have my wheelchair
in the seat next to mine, with the wheels detached. I pull out the frame and pop the wheels back on, one by one. Then I pull my legs out of the car the way
Kelly showed me, and lift the rest of my body out into the chair. She promised me this was something I’d get faster at, but right now, I’m slow. And
nervous. I don’t want to fall on my ass in the freaking parking garage.
I wheel myself to the entrance to the building. There’s a handicapped button that I sometimes press, or if Kenny is around, he holds the doors for me.
He’s there today, and he looks taken aback to see me in a wheelchair. Although he probably shouldn’t, considering how awful I’ve been walking lately.
“Hello there, Mr. Harper.” He squints at me. “How you doin’?”
“Fine.” I force a smile. “How are you?”
“Just fine,” he says.
Thank fucking God, he doesn’t pursue the whole thing further.
It’s easier to be in a wheelchair than it had been walking at the end. I was so nervous about every bump in the tiling, like it might send me flying. Now
I roll across the floor without a second thought. I don’t hit any ruts in the floor, but even if I did, I feel confident I could get over them. The only thing that
makes me nervous is doorways—I had no idea how narrow most of them are. I get worried about clipping my hand as I go through.
The first problem comes in the elevator. I had no idea that the buttons were so high, but when I try to reach for the button for my floor, it eludes me. I
feel ridiculous, stretching to hit the button, my fingers about an inch short.
“What floor do you need?” a man asks me.
“Eleven. Thanks,” I mumble.
Christ, am I going to have to go through this shit every time?
When I get up to my own floor, that’s when things get real. Everyone is staring at me as I wheel by. Not that they didn’t stare at me when I was
walking on crutches, but I was so focused on not falling, I stopped noticing. I try not to notice today, but it’s hard.
I usually try to pass by Anna’s cubicle on my way to my own, but this time, I take a different path. I don’t want her to see me this way. I know it’s
dumb because it’s obviously inevitable, but I don’t know. I just don’t. Not yet.
But of course, she sees me when she comes to my cubicle for lunch. Her blue eyes widen when she notices that I’m in the wheelchair.
“Oh,” she says.
I shrug. “I got sick of dragging myself around on those crutches.” Like it was a choice I made. Like I wouldn’t be walking if it were remotely possible.
“Lunch?” Anna suggests, holding up her insulated lunch bag.
I nod and follow her to the break room. I’m shorter than she is now, in my wheelchair. Maybe if we had a date, I could use my braces and crutches. Or
I don’t know, maybe my walker even.
Who am I kidding? Anna and I will never have a date.
We get to the break room, and I realize that my water bottle is up in the top cabinet. I’ll never be able to reach it without standing up. I clear my throat.
“Um, Anna, do you think you could reach my water bottle for me?”
Anna looks at me, and then she bursts into tears. She sinks into a chair, sobbing.
Jesus Christ.
Chapter 61: Anna
When Matt wheels into work in his new chair, my heart sinks. I know he hates this. I know that more than anything in the world, he wanted to retain the
ability to walk. And I have failed him.
Not that there’s anything wrong with him being in a wheelchair. He’s still just as attractive, at least to me. He’s still the only man I want—possibly the
only man that I’ll ever want. In some ways, it’s easier to watch him glide around in a wheelchair than struggling with those crutches. But I know it’s not
what he wanted.
I hear everyone at work whispering about him all morning. I pass by Joe and Calvin at the water cooler, and Joe says to Calvin, “So you want to invite
him to hunt with us tonight? What do you think?”
And Calvin replies, “Shut the fuck up, Joe.”
Matt had the seat removed from his cubicle. I heard the custodial staff member coming by to take it. “You don’t need this anymore?” the guy asked
Matt.
“No, I won’t need it,” Matt told him. “Just take it away.”
It’s obvious he intends to use the wheelchair all the time. I can’t blame him.
I tell myself over and over that this isn’t the worst thing in the world. This is the inevitable conclusion of the decline that Matt has had over the last
several years. But when we’re in the break room together and I see him looking up at the water bottle that he can no longer reach, I just can’t bear it
anymore.
“Anna,” he says gently. I am overcome with guilt that given everything he’s going through, he now has to comfort me. He wheels closer to me, and I
feel a heavy hand rest on my shoulder. My body tenses against my will, but I quickly remind myself that he’s only touching me through my clothing. And
also, it feels so nice to have his warm hand touching my body. Even if it’s just my shoulder. “It’s okay, Anna. I’m okay.”
“It’s all my fault!” I sob. “It’s my fault you can’t walk.”
“Anna,” he says again. Now he’s outright rubbing my shoulder. Even though I feel awful, I love the way he’s touching me. I don’t want it to ever end.
“It’s not your fault. Anyway, I can still walk. I just feel like it’s easier to… to be in the wheelchair during the day.”
“I prayed for you,” I say, wiping my eyes. “I prayed that you’d be able to keep walking, even with what that doctor told you. I knew that if I said the
prayer perfectly 121 times, you would be okay. But…” I’m crying so hard, I start hiccupping. “I couldn’t do it, Matt. I’d always get some little part wrong.
I made it to 103 times perfectly once, but then I touched my shoulder 12 times instead of 11. If I had done it…”
He’s looking at me like I’m crazy. I know it sounds crazy when I say it, but he doesn’t get it. I could have saved him. If only I’d done it right.
Or maybe not. Maybe this is just one of those compulsions that Dr. Schultz keeps reminding me is meaningless. Sometimes I realize that, but other
times, I’m not entirely certain. I genuinely believed I could save Matt.
I start to cry harder. And then I feel Matt wrap me in his arms, and I’m letting him do it and it’s okay. It’s more than okay, actually. I want this. More
than anything, I want this.
Chapter 62: Matt
Okay, Anna is nuts. Really, really nuts. More crazy than I even gave her credit for. And that’s saying a lot.
But at the same time, the whole thing is touching. The girl honestly believes she’s the reason this happened to me. She feels so bad about it that she’s
sobbing. It makes me want to reach out and give her a hug.
So I do. I hug Anna and she lets me hug her. She sobs into my shoulder and clings to my chest. And it’s been so damn long since I’ve been this close
to a girl that I actually start getting hard just from this. Just from a stupid hug. Good thing I’m sitting down.
Anna pulls away for a second and her eyes are so wet. “Matt,” she sniffles.
Shit, she’s beautiful.
Then I do something that I know I shouldn’t do, but she’s so damn beautiful that I literally do not even care anymore:
I kiss Anna.
I lean forward and my lips are on hers. Her lips are so goddamn soft, it makes my whole body tingle. She nearly pulls away, but then she doesn’t. She
lets me kiss her.
I don’t put my tongue in her mouth. I sense that I probably shouldn’t do that. But I do everything else. Everything else one could do with a kiss.
When I pull away, Anna is shaking. She taps on the table eleven times and her breathing evens out. She looks down at her lap.
“Do you hate me?” I have to ask her.
“No, of course I don’t,” she says, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Good,” I say. “Because I love you.”
It feels weird to say that. After all, Anna and I haven’t even been out on one date. But you know what? I do. I love her. I fucking love her. I’ve never
felt this way before. Even in spite of all the crazy or maybe partially because of it, I love her.
“I love you too,” Anna says, and she looks me in the eyes to let me know she means it. “But…” She shakes her head. “I’d ruin your life.”
I gesture down at my legs. “I don’t think so, Anna. Anyway, I’m willing to take the risk.”
We look at each other a long time. Soon the regular lunch crowd will be filtering in and Anna hates that. I get that. I know Anna so damn well.
“I liked it,” she says softly. “When you kissed me? I really liked it.”
I grin at her. It’s been what I’ve been waiting to hear for a long time. So I kiss her again.
Chapter 63: Anna
Matt is coming over to my house tonight.
I am simultaneously excited and absolutely terrified. Nobody comes into my house. It is a completely sterile environment. I won’t even allow my
parents inside. Even though I trust Matt more than anyone else in the world, I still can’t fathom him entering my personal space.
Prior to our date, I called him multiple times. “Could you make sure you’re wearing something clean?”
“Anna,” he sighed. “I always wear clean clothing. This is getting insulting.”
In addition to being terrified about having Matt in my space, I am equally terrified about what he will think of my home. I spend the entire day
cleaning my house until my back is sore and my hands are nearly bleeding. But the big problem I have is that I have trouble throwing things away. When I
put something in the garbage can, it just feels so final. Once something is at the dumpster, it can’t be retrieved. So I waste very little.
Sometimes I feel like the items that I save are encroaching on my space. Dangerously so.
Although what I’m most concerned about is my tower of cans. I recognize that this is the least conventional item in my home. Most people don’t have
hundreds of cans stacked in their living room. But honestly, it’s not that many cans. It’s not as if I have thousands of cans. Or millions.
In anticipation of my night with Matt, I do something that I hate to do, which is that I take a Xanax.
This medication was given to me by Dr. Schultz as what he calls a “rescue medication.” When I’m feeling particularly anxious about my baseline level
of anxiety, I can take Xanax to ease some of that anxiety.
I try not to take it unless it’s absolutely necessary. After swearing I would never be on medication, I now take two pills on a daily basis, and then the
Xanax additionally. I try not to think about it. I do feel that it helps, and it has not turned me into a zombie. I would never be able to contemplate having
Matt in my home without these medications.
Once the Xanax is in my system, I can feel myself starting to relax. Instead of being terrified, I start to look forward to having Matt in my home. I hope
that when he’s here that he kisses me.
Kissing Matt was one of the most amazing things I have ever experienced. When his lips first touched mine, all I could think about were the germs.
But a second later, it was the furthest thing from my mind. All I could think about was how lovely it felt to have his lips against mine, his tongue somehow
penetrating every single nerve ending in my entire body.
He must be very good at kissing.
With two hours left until Matt arrives, I start pacing around my living room. I wish he were coming right now. On a whim, I call him up.
“Are you still coming?” I ask him.
“Nope,” Matt says. “I changed my mind.”
My heart stops.
“I’m kidding, Anna,” he says. “Of course I’m coming. I can’t wait to see you.”
My shoulders relax at the sound of his reassurances. “Me too. I can’t wait to see you too.”
“Is there anything you’d like me to bring?” he asks.
“Just yourself.” I pause thoughtfully. “Do you think you’ll be kissing me tonight?”
For a moment, Matt is quiet. Then he laughs. “Yeah. I mean, it wasn’t a well-thought out plan. But I thought probably I would. If that’s okay with
you.”
“It is,” I say quickly. Then I add, “I’ll put it on the agenda for tonight.”
Matt laughs again. I know I’m saying stupid things, but I haven’t been on a date in a long time and I haven’t ever been on a date with a man that I
really liked. Planning and scheduling keeps me calm.
“It’s going to be great, Anna,” he says, although part of me wonders if he’s trying to convince me or himself.
Chapter 64: Matt
Anna still won’t come to my apartment, but she anxiously agrees to let me come to hers. It’s clearly a big deal though. She calls me no less than five
million times to ask me about food choices for dinner and even asks me multiple times if I’ll be wearing clean clothing. If it were anyone else but Anna, I’d
have canceled five years ago.
When I pull into Anna’s driveway, her door opens almost instantly, which makes me think she’s been staring out the window waiting for me. I actually
timed things to arrive at the exact second she told me to come, because I know Anna’s got a thing about promptness. If I were early, she’d freak out, and if
I were late, she’d be mad. I had to wait in my car a block away for ten minutes to make absolutely sure I’d get there exactly on time.
She hops down the stairs to her front door and arrives at my car slightly breathless. “You came!” she says as I open the door to my car.
“Of course I came.” Sometimes I don’t know how to respond to this girl.
Anna warned me that there are five steps to get to the front door of the house she owns, so I came prepared. I’m wearing my KAFOs and I’ve brought
my crutches with me. The plan is to walk up the five steps, which apparently have a railing, and Anna can pull my chair up the stairs.
It ends up being more of a drama than I anticipated. I have a lot of trouble standing up from my wheelchair because the footplate is in the way. I grab
onto one crutch and the railing, and I rock to give myself momentum, but it’s hard. I can still stand up with my walker, but that wouldn’t have given me
much help with stairs.
“Can I help?” Anna asks me.
Hell no. No good date ever has started with the woman helping the guy to stand up. Yet how am I supposed to do this? I genuinely don’t see how I can
get up these stairs.
“Let me lean on you,” I finally say.
Anna comes to my side, and I grab onto her with one arm and the railing with the other. I use the strength in my arms to pull myself into a standing
position. Whew.
And now I’ve got to get up these goddamn stairs.
I take them slowly. It’s really, really hard though. My right leg just does not want to cooperate. But through some combination of prayer and dragging
my leg along, I make it to the top. This is the worst of it. I now know how to bump down stairs in my wheelchair if there’s a railing, so I won’t have to
repeat this process.
“Do you want me to put your wheelchair in the trunk?” Anna asks me from the bottom of the stairs.
“No,” I say. “Just bring it up the stairs.”
Anna frowns. “You mean you’re going to use it in my house?”
“Yeah…” What the fuck did she think I was going to do with it?
She crinkles her nose. “But it’s all dirty!”
I’m starting to feel like this whole thing was a big mistake. “Well, what do you want me to do?”
“Can’t you use the crutches in the house?”
Yes and no. I could use them, but I’d risk another situation where I couldn’t get up. And the truth is, I’ve started to dislike trying to get around with my
braces and crutches. The wheelchair is just so much easier. I’ve started mostly using it in my apartment too.
“Can’t I use my wheelchair?” I ask.
Anna finally nods. “Okay. I’ll just… I’ll clean off the wheels when we get inside.”
And she actually lets me get back in my wheelchair and stashes the crutches in my car for me. Thank God.
After all these years of knowing Anna, I’d like to say that it’s anticlimactic to see the inside of her house. But it isn’t. The thing that strikes me first
about Anna’s home is, of course, the cans. There is a huge tower of them in her living room, just randomly in the middle of the room. The top can nearly
touches the ceiling. It’s one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever seen.
Anna’s house is technically clean, but it’s very cluttered. That’s the best word for it—cluttered. Every surface in the house is packed with… stuff.
Every shelf is packed to the brim—and she’s got a lot of shelves. I’ve watched some of those hoarder shows on television, and even though I wouldn’t call
her a hoarder, there are some things in this house that remind me of the hoarder houses. Like six pencil jars in a row, each packed to the brim with pens and
pencils. Why would anyone need that many pens and pencils?
It makes me wonder if she ever throws anything away. If I looked hard enough, would I find a box full of used chewing gum?
“Okay,” Anna says when we get inside. “Let me clean your wheels. Don’t move.”
The next thirty minutes are spent with Anna using her Lysol bottle on the wheels of my chair. I’m not exaggerating, unfortunately. She scrubs them
down, has me wheel forward a bit so she can get at a new area, then continues scrubbing. I must be in love with her to allow this to happen.
“There,” she says when she finishes. She finally allows herself a smile.
“Thanks.” I feel like I should tip her.
Anna’s eyes dart around her house nervously. “So, um… what do you think?”
I can’t be honest with her. “It’s a nice place.”
“I cleaned it up for you,” she tells me.
I don’t know what to say to that.
She’s staring at me and I’m not entirely sure why. I push my palms against my wheels, moving forward into her living room, just as she lets out a
squeal of protest.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her.
“You…” She wrings her hands together. “You didn’t wash your hands after you came in.”
I look down at my hands, at the callouses that have been rising on the surface thanks to all the time I’ve spent wheeling lately. But they don’t look
particularly dirty.
“Please…?” Anna says.
I sigh and nod. “Where’s your bathroom?”
She points to a door that’s clear across the living room. The only way to get there is to navigate around the tower of cans. It would be tricky if I were
on my feet, but in a wheelchair, it’s damn near impossible.
“There’s also one upstairs,” she says.
Thanks. That’s helpful. “I’ll use the one over there,” I say tightly.
I look at the narrow path to the bathroom. This is going to be tricky. But what can I do? Anna wants me to wash my hands. Also, if I’m having dinner
here, I’ll need the bathroom at some point. The pills that Dr. Dunne gave me help somewhat to keep my bladder under control, but when the urge comes, I
know I’ve got to move.
I slowly make my way across her living room, but before I’m halfway there, I hit a pocket of cans that I didn’t notice and they go toppling. At least six
cans fall to the floor and Anna lets out a dismayed gasp.
“Sorry,” I say.
 “I’ll fix it,” she says breathlessly.
I make it the rest of the way to the bathroom without incident. Then I see the narrow entrance to the bathroom and I get a sick feeling. How am I going
to get my goddamn chair in there? You don’t realize how narrow doorways can be until you’re in a wheelchair.
I push the door open as far as it can go and take my hands off the pushrims so they don’t get clipped. It’s tight, but my chair makes it inside. Barely. I
can’t turn or do anything else, but I’m in the bathroom.
The sink is too high for me, of course. I grab the rim of the sink and pull myself forward enough so that I can just barely reach the handle for the cold
water. It’s not easy, but I manage to wash my hands. Sort of. This bathroom is definitely not set up for a guy in a wheelchair. If I need the toilet, I’m going
to have to use it with the door open.
I back up out of the bathroom, the task Anna gave me now completed, more or less. Except when I return to the living room, the situation seems to
have deteriorated. The cans that had been stacked neatly now lay strewn around the room, in complete disarray. Anna sits among them, a can in each hand,
contemplating the situation.
“Anna,” I gasp. “What happened?”
“I had to start over,” she mumbles. “It all has to be done over. It’s not correct now.”
I stare at her. “Do you have to do this right now?”
“Yes. I do.”
Anna stacks one can on top of another, her thin fingers trembling. As I watch her, I feel ill. I always thought of Anna as eccentric, but now it hits me
that it’s so much more than that. She’s not just eccentric—she’s mentally ill. She has major, deep-seated issues. And as much as I want to get past that and
be with her, the truth is that I probably can’t.
Nobody can.
“Maybe I should leave then,” I say.
Anna nods. “We can reschedule for another time.”
Despite everything, I feel a flash of anger. “Yeah. Another time.”
And now I’ve got to get the hell out of this house. Which is fucking impossible. Because it was hard to squeeze through the living room before and
now there are cans everywhere.
“Can you clear a path for me?” I ask.
She doesn’t seem to hear me. She’s too busy studying a can of peas.
You know what? To hell with this. I start picking up the cans myself and tossing them to the side. I need to get out of here. This is ridiculous.
Anna looks completely shocked. “Matt…” she says.
“I need to get out of here,” I say to her, feeling simultaneously furious with her and like a huge asshole for the way I’m acting.
Anna looks up at me with those big blue eyes. It almost breaks my heart. I’m an asshole for leaving, but what the hell am I supposed to do? I want to
help her but how can I? I’ve got my own issues that I’m dealing with. Issues that are just as bad as hers.
Me and her, we’re just not meant to be.
I make enough room that I’m barely able to get by. Anna finally gets up off the floor and helps me open all the twenty million locks on her door. Good
thing, because I’d never have figured it out on my own in a trillion years. She doesn’t offer to help me with the stairs, but I manage that okay. Kelly
showed me how to go down stairs in my chair—I’m not great at it, but I can do it if I’m careful.
Then when I’m at the bottom of the stairs, I just sit there for a minute, staring into the distance. All of a sudden, I desperately want to go back. I want
to tell Anna I don’t care that she’s got issues that make her have a million cans in her house—I’m going to help her through it. I want to tell her I love her.
Except those goddamn stairs. I can’t figure out how I’d get back up them. I barely made it up before with Anna helping me. The only way I could do it
would be to get out of my chair and drag myself up one by one, and then what the hell would I do at the top? There’s no chance for any sort of grand
entrance where I burst through the door with open arms.
So in the end, the choice is made for me.
Chapter 65: Anna
As I sit across from Dr. Schultz in his tiny, cramped office, I feel the tears in my eyes, struggling to spill over. I have been coming here every week for over
a year and what good has it done me? What good has it done me?
“Anna?” Dr. Schultz raises one of his white eyebrows. “Are you all right?”
“No.” A tear escapes from my right eye and I quickly swipe it away. “I’m not all right. I’ve been taking those stupid pills for a whole year and I’m still
not any better. I take them every single day, and I’m still just as bad as I ever was! I couldn’t even…”
I’m unable to complete the sentence. The tears in my eyes spill over and trickle down my cheeks. I’m so frustrated. My “date” with Matt went more
terribly than I possibly could have imagined—I have ruined everything with him completely and inexorably. All I wanted was to be able to have a normal
relationship with him, and it looks like that can never happen.
“Anna,” Dr. Schultz says quietly. “Look where you’re sitting.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about. “I’m sitting on your couch.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “You’re sitting directly on my couch, without any paper towels under you. You made me keep those paper towels there for our first
ten sessions.”
I look down at the flowered couch that had seemed so unacceptably filthy the first time I arrived here. Today it doesn’t seem pristine, but it’s not so
contaminated that I require a barrier to protect me.
“You must have cleaned it,” I say.
He shakes his head. “I didn’t.”
Hmm. Maybe I should get some paper towels. But no, it doesn’t seem that bad.
“Also,” he adds, “the first several months you were coming, you would spend the first fifteen minutes of your appointment cleaning my office while
we talked. You don’t do that anymore.”
He’s right. I didn’t even bring my Lysol bottle today.
“So it’s untrue that you’re not any better,” he says. “You’re much better.”
I shake my head. “What’s the point though? The whole reason I came here was because of Matt. And when he tried coming over to my house, I… it
was just awful. Beyond awful. He’ll probably never speak to me again.”
“Never speak to you again!” Dr. Schultz snorts. “I highly doubt that.”
So I tell him what I did. How panicky and anxious I was through the entire experience, how I spent so much time dealing with my cans that he had to
leave.
“He probably hates me,” I murmur, suddenly certain of that fact.
He laughs, actually laughs at me. “Matt doesn’t hate you, Anna.”
I frown at him. “How do you know?”
“He loves you.” The certainty in his voice lends me a shred of hope. “He’s frustrated the same way you are. But he does love you, Anna. I haven’t
even met the guy, but it’s so obvious from everything I hear. And just like you, he desperately wants to find a way to make it work between the two of
you.”
I lean back against the flowered couch, dejected. “And what if he realizes there isn’t a way to make it work?”
“I don’t think he’s going to give up quite so easily.”
The entire drive home from Dr. Schultz’s office, I hear his voice in my ears: I don’t think he’s going to give up quite so easily. He might be right, but
there will be a time when Matt does give up on me. Eventually, he will throw up his hands and say that he can’t deal with a woman who cares about her
cans more than she cares about him. Even if that’s not true at all.
When I get home, the first thing I see is those cans. There used to be 121 cans, which was a manageable number, but now there are far more. I haven’t
counted, partially because I’m afraid to know. There are a lot. After all, I’ve spent years collecting them and I never throw any away. Because of this tower
of cans, Matt couldn’t get through my house in his wheelchair.
I stare at the cans for several minutes before I make a decision.
I retrieve a bunch of folded cardboard boxes from the garage that I’d been saving since the day I moved here. I unfold the first box, taping the sides
together so they stay in place. Then I pull a can of baked beans out of the tower and place it carefully in the box.
Chapter 66: Matt
It’s the worst time for my parents to show up, yet here they are.
I’ve already been feeling sorry for myself since my failed date with Anna yesterday. I keep replaying everything that happened in my mind, wondering
if there’s something I could have done differently. Or if there will ever be another date with Anna Flint. I honestly don’t know, and that thought makes me
very depressed.
So obviously, the last thing I want is to deal with my mom and dad.
I’ve been avoiding my parents like plague for the last several months, ever since my walking got bad. I hate the way my mother looks at me now—like
she thinks I’m about to shatter at any moment. I’ve gotten good at making up excuses not to see them.
So I’m shocked when I open up the door one day and see them both standing in front of me. I would never have opened the door except that I had
ordered Chinese food ten minutes earlier, and I’d been optimistic about the delivery time.
When they see me sitting in a wheelchair, they both look stunned. I’m not entirely sure why, because my walking has been shit for the last six months
and this was obviously on the horizon. If I had any idea they were at the door, I would have never allowed them to see me in my chair. Actually, I had this
idea in my head that maybe they would never have to see me in a wheelchair.
So much for that.
“Matt,” Mom gasps. “I didn’t realize that you were… that you’ve been…”
“It’s just for around the house,” I say quickly. “Just for sometimes.”
That’s the opposite of the truth. For the last few weeks, I’ve been relying on my wheelchair more and more. I know I was hesitant to use the chair at
first, but it’s just so much easier than dragging my ass around on crutches. Even the walker is a pain, because I can’t use it without my KAFOs. It’s such a
relief that if I need to pee or something during the night, I can just hop in my chair instead of fumbling with braces. And it gives me so much more freedom
out of the house. I was able to meet Erin at a restaurant for the first time in months. Calvin and I went out to dinner last weekend (and amazingly, didn’t
talk about women at all).
That said, I make sure to walk every single day. I’m not losing the ability to walk. So I always make sure to get my braces on and walk. I try to do a
loop around the block with my walker, but even just around the apartment is enough. I do it every single day, except if I’m really, really tired.
My mother is clutching a pan of mystery casserole and she looks like she’s about to drop it, so I tell her to stick it in the fridge and say I’ll be right
back. I wheel to my bedroom, where my KAFOs are stashed in the closet. I put them on, which is a pain in the neck that I’d hoped to avoid tonight, but oh
well. Then I look for my crutches.
Which, of course, I left in the goddamn car.
My walker is here, at least. I’ll just come out using my walker. It’s easier than the crutches anyway. And at least I’ll be walking.
I pull myself into a standing position. Christ, it’s gotten hard to do that. My right leg is fucking useless.
Slowly, I make my way out to the living room. My parents haven’t seen me with the walker either, so I’m not sure if this is making the situation better.
Especially when my foot snags on the floor and I nearly fall.
My parents are sitting on the couch, watching me with identical horrified expressions on their faces. Mom is clutching Dad’s arm. Like they’re
watching a horror movie.
“You can use the wheelchair if you need to,” Dad tells me.
“No, I’m fine like this,” I say.
Dad looks doubtful. “You look terrible walking. You seemed more comfortable in the chair.”
“I’m fine,” I say through my teeth.
I drop down onto the couch next to them and force a smile. I’m sure they’re planning to stay for dinner. How much more of this crap do I have to
endure?
“Son,” Dad says slowly, “your mother and I were just talking and we think that… it’s time you moved back home. With us.”
I knew it. I fucking knew it.
“Dad…”
He holds up a hand. “Matt, I know you want to be independent. But it’s abundantly clear you need help. Your mom and I are here to help you.”
“I don’t need help,” I say through my teeth.
“This isn’t the time for pride to get in the way,” Dad says. “Please. This is what parents are for.”
It would probably insult him if I told him how sick I feel at the thought of moving back in with my parents. Maybe it wouldn’t have been as bad if I
were able-bodied, but I feel like a big enough loser right now without adding “lives with parents” to the list. At least I’m independent and I’ve got my
privacy. I’m thirty years old, for fuck’s sake—living with my parents is the last thing I want.
And the truth is, I am fine. Getting this wheelchair has made me even more confident in how fine I am. I can do practically everything again.
Before I can work out exactly what to say, the doorbell rings. It’s my Chinese food.
“I’ll get it,” I say, grateful for the reprieve.
I grab onto my walker. And of course, now would be a great time for me to be having trouble standing up. The part of the couch I’m on is more sunken
or… I don’t know what. Maybe I’m just nervous. In any case, I keep rocking back and forth, trying to build some momentum. But I’m not budging.
Shit.
“Matt?” Dad’s eyebrows are furrowed together. “Do you need help?”
“No,” I say.
Please, God, help me get off this sofa. Please. If you let me get up, I will never ask for anything else ever again. Amen.
By some miracle, God listens and I’m able to stand up. I have to thank the fact that my arms have gotten a lot stronger lately—Kelly has been showing
me how to get off the floor and into my wheelchair without any braces. I make my way very, very slowly over to the door, and pay for the Chinese food.
Thankfully, the delivery guy is very patient. He’s delivered to me before.
Of course, once I’ve got the food, I have no way of getting it anywhere else. I stashed my tray with wheels away once I’d started using my wheelchair
more. I look down at the brown bag of Chinese food then over at my parents.
My mother takes the cue and grabs the food for me. The whole thing isn’t helping me prove my point that I can live independently. Again, if I hadn’t
switched over to my walker, I’d be fine. I would have just put the food in my lap.
“Matt,” Mom says as she unpacks the food for me onto my dining table. “Look, enough of this. You’re coming home. End of story.”
I stare at her. “And what gives you the right to tell me where I get to live when I’m an adult and I’ve got a job that pays the bills?”
“Matt, look at you!” she cries, slamming down a container of shrimp lo mein. Her hands are trembling and she looks like she’s about to cry. It almost
makes me feel guilty about the whole thing. “Whether you want to admit it or not, you have a severe disability! You can’t manage on your own anymore.
You need our help.”
She’s wrong. I don’t need her help. But what I do need is my goddamn wheelchair.
“I’m adjusting,” I admit.
 “We’ll give you your privacy,” Dad said, switching to a different tactic. “We’ll convert the den to your bedroom and we won’t help you unless you
need it. But if you do need it—for meals, laundry, bathing…”
“Bathing!” I feel like I’m going to have a stroke. “Dad, I can bathe myself. I don’t need your help with that.”
My father looks baffled. “How?”
“I’ve got…” Christ, I don’t feel like explaining my bathroom set-up to them, including the bench I have running across the tub so I can sit down while
I shower. “I just do. Okay? I mean, do I look like I haven’t had a shower in six months?”
My parents exchange doubtful expressions. This is getting insulting.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself before I say something I regret. “I know you’re worried,” I say quietly. “But I’ve got everything under
control here.” When they still look skeptical, I add, “And if that ever isn’t the case, I promise I’ll let you know. I swear.”
That will never happen though.
It’s a subdued meal after that. But the good news is that neither of them say another word about my coming to live with them. I know they haven’t
accepted it yet, but they will eventually. It’s not like when I’ve been in this chair for ten years, they’ll still be trying to talk me into moving in with them.
Wow, it’s hard to imagine having been in a wheelchair for ten years. Then again, it’s also hard to imagine being forty.
I usher my parents out as soon as I possibly can. The last thing my mother says to me before I practically shove them out the door is, “We’re here for
you, Matt.”
It’s sweet, even if I really, really don’t want their help.
I get back in my wheelchair the second they’re gone, and the relief I feel is palpable. It’s amazing how much I’ve come to rely on this chair—it’s so
much easier than walking. I don’t even hate it anymore. It gives me so much more freedom in so many ways.
For example, when my cell phone starts ringing across the room from me, I don’t need to feel a sense of urgency and panic that there’s no way I’ll
make it over there in time. In my chair, I can make it across the room in a few seconds, the way I used to. Especially after I had Erin’s husband rearrange
the furniture for me to make it easier to get around.
Then I see Anna’s name on the cell phone screen and any temporary sense of well-being vanishes. Is she calling to end it once and for all? I can’t
imagine that after our disaster of a date, she could be doing anything else.
“Matt.” She sounds breathless when I answer the phone.
“Uh, hey, Anna,” I say. “Are you okay?”
She takes a second, gulping for air. “I got rid of them.”
What? Rid of who? Does Anna think she accidentally killed someone again?
“Rid of who?” I ask carefully.
“Whom,” Anna corrects me.
“Huh?”
“You would say ‘rid of whom,’” she says. Good, glad we cleared that up. “But actually, it’s not ‘whom,’ it’s ‘what.’” She pauses. “I got rid of my
cans.”
“What?”
Anna got rid of her cans? Anna without her cans would be like… Penn without Teller. It would be like Mozart without a piano. Like Calvin without
beer. Or like Anna without her cans.
“You couldn’t get inside,” she says simply. “So I boxed them up and brought them to the food pantry. They were very grateful for the donation!”
“But,” I sputter. I still can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Did you get rid of all of them?”
“Yes,” she says, although now her voice sounds uncertain, as if she’s not sure she’s done the right thing. I hope she doesn’t start freaking out. “I had to
do it. If you can’t come over because of the cans, then I had to decide between you and the cans. I choose you, Matt.”
“Well, that’s flattering,” I say, not entirely sarcastically.
She’s quiet for a minute and I’m worried that I offended her. You never know with Anna.
“I did it because I love you,” she says softly. “You’re the only person who’s ever made me feel like I want to be normal. I never cared before that
everyone called me Crazy Anna and that I spend two hours cleaning my house every day. It never bothered me. But…” Her voice breaks on the words.
“The truth is that after you asked me to dinner that time, I started seeing a therapist. To get treated. I’m taking pills every day so I can try to be normal. I
want to be normal so that I can be with you, Matt.”
My breath catches in my throat. I had no idea about any of this. I was so furious at Anna that day she blew me off. I didn’t realize it upset her as much
as it upset me. Christ, she went on medication for me? That’s… unbelievable.
“Anna,” I say, “I don’t want you to be normal. I love you because… you’re you. It would kill me if you stopped being you. I don’t need you to take
pills.”
“I need them,” she says so firmly that I know I won’t be able to argue with her. “I… I’m aware that I have an illness and the pills are helping me get
better. It’s just that… I wish they worked better. I’m not sure if…” She pauses, struggling to get control of her voice. “What if I freak out every time you
come into my house? What if I can’t kiss you without having a panic attack?”
“You already kissed me,” I point out.
“It was hard for me though,” she admits. “Matt, what if I can’t… what if I’m never able to…”
“I’ll still love you, Anna.” I grip the phone in my hand. “Whatever you can give me, I’ll take it. Obviously, I want to kiss you and hold you and all
that, but really, I just want you.”
I can’t believe I’m saying those words. Me—the guy who used to label women with a number and refuse to have anything more than a one-night stand.
But none of that made me happy. Anna makes me happy. I want Anna. I love Anna.
“I’m sorry about what happened yesterday,” she murmurs. “I wanted so badly for it to be a wonderful evening.”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “Me too.”
We’re both quiet a minute. I grip the phone tighter, imagining that I’m holding Anna in my arms, wondering if that’s something that can ever happen.
I’ll take what I can get, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want all of her.
“Do you want to come over here?” I blurt out.
She hesitates before replying, “Over there?”
I plow on, before I can second guess myself. “Yeah, sure. Tomorrow night. I’ll clean the place, get dinner for us. It’ll be great. Something different.”
She doesn’t respond.
“Come on, Anna,” I say gently. “It will be fine. I’ll be here the whole time with you.”
“And what if I need to leave right away?” she says softly.
“It’s okay,” I say. “We’ll try again another time. I can be patient.”
I don’t know if my other senses have gotten stronger as my legs have gotten weaker, but I swear I can almost hear Anna smiling on the other line.
“Okay,” she says carefully. “I’ll come over.”
Pray for us.
Chapter 67: Anna
Matt has invited me over to his apartment. I don’t know if I’ve got enough Xanax to make me feel comfortable with that.
During the entire drive to Matt’s apartment, my hands are shaking so badly, it’s difficult to control my vehicle. I am practically hyperventilating. I
brought along my bottle of Xanax and I pop two of them in my mouth. I stash the rest in the glove compartment—it wouldn’t do to take so many that I
can’t drive home.
I get out of the car, and I notice an attractive middle-aged woman sitting on the front porch, drinking a beer. I’m assuming she’s Matt’s landlady. She
eyes me suspiciously when I park next to her home and get out of the car.
I’ve only just gotten out of the car when the woman sprints down her steps, looking decidedly irritated. She looks me over, in my clean white blouse
and black pants. “What are you selling, girlie?” she asks me.
I have no idea what she’s talking about. I collect myself enough to reply, “I’m not selling anything.”
The woman narrows her eyes. “Who are you looking for then?”
I throw my shoulders back. “Matthew Harper.”
Part of me is hoping she’ll tell me I have the wrong house, even though I can see Matt’s car in the driveway.
The suspicious look fades and her eyes widen. “Oh! Are you a nurse?”
I shake my head no.
She keeps looking at me like she can’t quite figure it out. Then a smile twitches at the corners of her lips. “Wait… are you… Matt’s girlfriend?”
My cheeks grow warm. My fingers itch for that bottle of Xanax. I hate to admit how much it helps. “Yes.”
“Well, good for him then!” She grins at me. “It’s about time. It’s been ages since I’ve seen him sneaking in here in the same clothes from the day
before.”
I feel my cheeks turning pink at her inference.
“Aw, look at you blush!” The woman slaps her thigh. “You’re a cute one.”
“I’m going to see Matt now,” I tell her.
“Of course,” she says quickly. “I’m Rosie, his landlord. So if you have any troubles or need anything, just let me know.”
I will absolutely not let her know, and I hope to never have a conversation with this woman again. Especially now that I haven’t even entered Matt’s
apartment yet and I’m already drenched with perspiration.
Matt opens the door for me, standing up with his forearms laced through crutches. When he sees the look on my face, he frowns. “Well, you seem
thrilled to be here.”
“Sorry,” I murmur, although my feet don’t budge.
“I got the place cleaned yesterday,” he says to me, removing his hand from one of his crutches to gesture behind him. “Deep clean, top to bottom. You
couldn’t find a speck of dirt if you tried.”
“I bet I could.”
Matt grins. “Okay, I bet you could too. But I promise it’s clean. Will you come inside, Anna?”
Having never been inside a man’s apartment, I hadn’t known what to expect. Honestly, I’d been expecting the furniture to be strewn with jock straps
and boxer shorts, with empty pizza boxes littering the floors. But as promised, Matt’s apartment is incredibly clean. The furniture is sparse and simple,
probably to allow room for him to navigate his wheelchair, and I’m impressed with the level of organization.
As Matt follows me around as I take a brief tour of his living room. It’s weird to see him walking again, the two of us eye to eye, since he now uses his
wheelchair every time he’s at work. I can’t help but notice that in the brief time since I’ve last seen him walk, he’s gotten even worse. Each step seems to
be a struggle for him.
“Why aren’t you in your wheelchair?” I blurt out.
Matt looks at me in surprise. “I… I don’t know. I thought you preferred this.”
“You aren’t comfortable walking though.”
His eyes darken. “I’m comfortable. What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’re just not very good at walking anymore.”
Matt is outright glaring at me now, although I’m not sure why. He clearly feels more comfortable in his chair. But I suppose he’s still sensitive about
the whole thing.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “You can use whichever you want—crutches or wheelchair.”
His shoulders sag and the anger dissipates from his face. “No. You’re right, Anna. This has become hard for me. I just… I guess I thought maybe
you’d like me better this way.”
“I don’t,” I assure him. “It’s actually very hard to watch.”
Matt rolls his eyes as he allows himself to collapse onto his couch. “Gee, thanks.”
I sit down next to him. I realize that I haven’t had any signs of panic in the last several minutes. Maybe I’m all right here. Matt’s apartment doesn’t
frighten me. I actually feel quite comfortable here.
Or maybe it’s Matt that makes me feel comfortable.
Or the Xanax.
“Do you want to watch something on television?” he asks me.
I glance over at Matt’s big screen TV, then back at Matt, who is squeezing his hands together anxiously. He looks more nervous than I am. I’m not
sure why. Matt doesn’t get panic attacks, at least not that he’s told me about.
“Actually, I’d like to kiss you,” I tell him. “With, you know, tongue.”
Matt stares at me for a second, his brown eyes growing wide. He acts like I’ve said something incredibly shocking, although I don’t believe that I have.
I am his girlfriend, after all. It’s only natural that I’d want to kiss him. With our tongues.
“I have to admit,” Matt says, “nobody’s ever said those exact words to me.”
“They don’t?” I ask. “Then how do they say it?”
He shrugs and smiles. “They don’t. We just… do it.”
“Oh.” I squeeze my hands together. They feel very sweaty. “I’m sorry. I just… I’ve never…”
Matt is looking at me curiously. I’m terrified to admit my secret to him, but at the same time, his kind brown eyes make me feel like I could tell him
anything. After all, he knows everything else about me.
“I never kissed a man before,” I admit. “I mean, before you.”
I thought he must have been able to guess it by now, but he obviously couldn’t. He looks completely stunned by my revelation. He stares at me, his
mouth hanging open.
“Christ, Anna…”
“I’m sorry.” My hands are outright shaking now. I tap my finger against my knee eleven times. “You know that being close is… hard for me.”
 “Yeah, but I thought everybody…” He shakes his head.
I shrug, trying to play it cool when I’m feeling anything but. “Apparently not.” I glance at the door. “If it makes you uncomfortable, I don’t have to
stay.”
“Anna, come on.” He frowns at me. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted that way. It’s fine that you’ve never kissed anyone before. In fact, it’s sweet. I
like that I get to be the first. It’s just… a lot of pressure.”
“Pressure?”
He nods. “If this is no good, then you’re going to think all kissing is no good. You might hate kissing forever because of me.”
“It will be good,” I say.
“I like your confidence,” he laughs.
“Well, I’ve been waiting for you to do it for about seven years.”
Matt runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, no pressure there.”
I frown. “I’m sorry. Did I ruin the moment?”
“You…” He seems at a loss. “No, you didn’t ruin the moment. I’m just trying to figure out how to be romantic here.”
I’ve made him nervous—I can see that by the awkward half-smile on his face. And somehow, that makes me feel less nervous. When I look down at
my hands, I see they aren’t shaking anymore. Maybe it’s just the medications kicking in.
Either way, I manage to work up the courage to lean forward and kiss Matt myself.
And it is a lovely kiss. I feel his lips soft against mine and the stubble of his five o’clock shadow graze my chin and his hands coming around to lace
into my hair. Even though I asked for a kiss with tongue, he waits a long time before I feel even the tip of his tongue against my lips, then asking tacit
permission to get inside. And then it’s a real kiss—my first. The one I’ll always remember.
And it’s perfect. Because it’s with the man I love.
Chapter 68: Matt
I’m supposed to go to Anna’s house today.
I’ve been there multiple times since that kiss we had at my apartment. She had a ramp installed to get to the front door, and it’s much easier to navigate
with all those cans gone. She even widened the doorframe to the bathroom. I can tell she prefers being in her own space, so I don’t mind going over there.
Things are going better with Anna than I could have hoped. We still haven’t gone past first base, but I wouldn’t have expected us to. I know
relationships are unfamiliar territory for her, and the truth is, they are to me as well. Before Anna, I hadn’t met a girl in a long time that I’d wanted to have
a relationship with. Most of the time, I’m thrilled just to be with her. Touching her and kissing her—well, that still floors me.
I’m supposed to be at Anna’s for “brunch” and she freaks out if I’m late, so I set my alarm to make it on time. The first thing I do when I get up in the
morning these days is reach for my wheelchair. I don’t even contemplate whether I want to be on crutches or my walker today. It’s always the wheelchair
now. It’s just so much easier.
Today when I rub my eyes and sit up in bed, a question occurs to me:
When is the last time I’ve walked?
I didn’t walk yesterday. I was at work, and when I got home, I was too tired. Did I walk the day before? I went to Anna’s and I wouldn’t have been
walking at her house. So… no.
Shit, how long has it been?
The fact that I don’t know means one thing: I’ve got to walk today. I’ve been careful to walk at least every other day, so as not to lose that ability.
Even though I almost entirely rely on my wheelchair now, I don’t want to think of myself as someone who can’t walk. I’m someone who has some
difficulty walking, but I can do it.
I glance at my watch. I’ve got time to do one loop around the block.
I get into my wheelchair, which has become easier and easier with all the practice I’ve gotten. It barely seems like any effort at all to make the transfer.
I wheel to the closet, where I’ve got my KAFOs stored. It’s gotten fairly difficult to put them on—my legs have almost no strength anymore. And putting
on the right one kicks off a spasm that takes some time to calm down.
Walking has turned into an almost superhuman effort. I don’t feel like doing it, if I’m being honest. But I have to.
I find my walker in the living room, and position myself behind it. I remove my legs from the footplate, and entirely use the strength in my arms to pull
myself into a standing position. Good thing I’m strong.
Immediately, I feel dizzy. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I’m not used to standing anymore or my blood pressure dropping or what. A wave of vertigo
washes over me, and the truth is, I want nothing more than to sit back down again in my wheelchair.
Christ, even standing has become hard for me.
I wait it out, taking deep breaths. A cold sweat breaks out on my face, but I refuse to sit down. I’m going to walk today. And from now on, I’m going
to do it every day. It’s obvious that letting two days go was a mistake. I can’t be lazy anymore.
Gradually, I start to feel better. At least, I don’t feel like I’m going to pass out anymore.
Let’s get this walking thing over with.
I start with my left foot like I always do. That’s my stronger side. Except when my brain tells my left leg to move forward, it doesn’t budge.
I adjust the walker, moving it forward to give me more leverage. I grunt, concentrating all my effort on getting my left leg to move forward.
Move, you fucking leg. Move.
Shit.
Standing in the middle of the living room, I realize the hard truth: I can’t walk anymore. Sometime in the last two days, I lost that ability. I’m not a guy
in a wheelchair because he has difficulty walking. I’m in a wheelchair because I can’t walk. Not at all. Not even one tiny, fucking step.
And somehow, I feel worse about the fact that I can’t even remember the last time I walked. Which it turns out is the last time I’ll ever walk.
I drop back down into my wheelchair. Well, I can get rid of these stupid KAFOs, at least. It will be nice to never have to put those things on ever
again.
I sit in my living room for a minute. I can’t believe I’ll never walk again. I can’t believe it. I can’t fucking believe it.
I’m glad I’ve got some time before Anna expects me. Because I’d hate for her to see that I’ve been crying.
_____

“So we’ve got only two sessions left,” Kelly tells me. “I think you’ve gotten really good at transfers and wheelchair mobility. So tell me, Matt. What would
you like to work on today?”
Kelly stands before me, her hands planted on her athletic hips. For some reason, I think of the first time I met her. I was standing like her, just a guy
with a weak ankle. Now I can only look up at her.
“I want to walk,” I tell her.
Kelly frowns at me. “Walking? Do you really think that’s the best use of your time? I thought we weren’t going to focus on that?”
“Right,” I say. “But…”
I hesitate. I don’t know how to say this. But then again, Kelly has been with me since the beginning. She’ll understand.
“I tried to walk two days ago.” My voice is shaking. “And I couldn’t. At all.”
“Oh, Matt,” she murmurs. She puts a hand on my shoulder. “I know that was important to you. But you know there are a lot of people who can’t walk.
You can’t think of it as the end of the world.”
“I know,” I say. “But… the thing is…” I look up at her. “I can’t remember the last time I walked. And whenever it was, I didn’t know it was the last
time. I just… I want to experience it one more time.”
Kelly’s brow furrows. She looks at me for what seems like a long time. Finally, she says, “Okay.”
We go to the parallel bars. I already have my KAFOs on in anticipation of this moment, so they’re able to support me as I pull myself to standing.
Again, that dizzy sensation comes over me. I see black spots.
“Matt.” I hear Kelly’s voice, which sounds very far away. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re white as a sheet.”
“Give me a minute.”
“I think you should sit down.”
“No.”
It takes even longer than last time. At one point, I’m certain I’m going to either throw up or faint, but I don’t. To her credit, Kelly doesn’t keep
bugging me to sit down, and she waits it out with me.
I still feel like shit, but I’m okay enough. I look down at my left leg, hoping it will obey my command to move forward. It doesn’t.
“I need help,” I tell Kelly.
 Kelly moves my wheelchair out of the way and stands behind me, supporting my hips with her hands. “Swing your hip forward.”
I do as she says. I can tell she’s helping me take the step, but I’m able to do it. She supports me as I move my legs forward, one by one. It’s slow as all
hell, but I’m walking. I’m walking again.
It takes me twenty minutes to go the length of the parallel bars. Twenty minutes and every ounce of strength in my body, even with Kelly helping me.
By the time she fetches my wheelchair for me and I drop into it, I am literally drenched with sweat. I don’t feel any desire to ever do that again.
“Good job,” she says to me.
I smile thinly. “Thank you.”
I will never walk again.
Year Six: Matt

The handicapped spots are all taken in front of Dr. Dunne’s office. Not that I’m surprised.
“I’ll let you out in front,” Anna says to me. We’ve taken her car for this exact reason. I don’t have room to get out of the car if I’m in a regular parking
spot, so that extra space next to the reserved spots is crucial. If I don’t have that, I’m not going anywhere. “I can meet you inside, okay?”
“You don’t have to come with me,” I say. “It’s just a boring doctor’s appointment. Go shopping or something. Then we’ll grab dinner after.”
“I hate shopping.”
I smile at Anna. That’s definitely something that hasn’t changed about her.
As for the things that have changed, there are many. First and foremost, Anna is my girlfriend. It’s not open to interpretation anymore. We have kissed
many times. We’ve been to second base too. And we’ve had sex.
There was definitely a point in my relationship with Anna where I seriously wondered if we would ever have sex. Obviously, she’d never had sex
before and she was terrified. I ended up accompanying her to several appointments with her psychiatrist so we could all talk about it. There were half a
dozen times where we tried to have sex without actually managing to do it. But now we have regular sex. And Anna likes it—or at least, the noises she
makes indicate that she likes it.
She does still have to shower immediately after. But we’re working on that.
One month ago, we did something really crazy, which is I moved in with her. I was spending so much time at her place anyway—it just made sense. It
was another time when we needed a bunch of sessions with Dr. Schultz to help push it through, but now that I’m living with her, it’s going well. Better than
I could have expected.
“You’ll be so bored in the waiting room,” I tell her. “I’d feel bad.”
Anna looks thoughtful. She is quiet for much longer than I would have expected before she says, “I will go shopping.”
Okay then.
After I get out of the car, I wheel up the ramp to the front door of the building. I push my fist into the handicapped button and the doors open
automatically for me. It’s amazing how automatic it’s become for me to look for those buttons in a relatively short time.
Dr. Dunne’s waiting area seems more crowded than usual today. I text Anna that I might be late so she won’t rush back. This isn’t an important
appointment in many ways, but it’s also representative in my head. Five years ago, I walked into this office, and Dr. Dunne told me that I wouldn’t be on
my feet in five years. At the time, I’d been absolutely determined to march into this office and prove him wrong.
I’m not sure how to feel about the whole thing. I’d be lying if I said I was thrilled. I’m not going to say I don’t wish I could still walk. But at the same
time, my life is good. My life is better now than it was five years ago. Five years ago, I was bored at work and had an empty, meaningless social life. Now
I’ve got Anna, and I got a promotion last year that put me in charge of a team working on a really interesting project. So it’s hard to feel that depressed.
“Matthew Harper?” a pretty nurse calls out into the waiting room after I’ve been playing with my phone for about fifteen minutes.
I push my hands against the rims of my chair and follow her to the back. The nurses here are all so pretty. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s a
coincidence. Dr. Dunne—that old dog.
I arrive in the examining room, where she nods at the examining table. “I guess I won’t ask you to hop on,” she says.
“Yeah, thanks,” I say. I could probably get up there, but it would be a pain.
“Anything bothering you today?” the nurse asks me.
“Just here to review my most recent MRI,” I tell her.
My symptoms have been stable over the last year. Dr. Dunne says that primary progressive multiple sclerosis usually works mainly on the legs, and
now that I essentially can’t move them at all, not much more has happened. Of course, there’s always the chance that the disease could move northward,
but fortunately, I’ve been spared that so far.
I wait for Dr. Dunne to come into the examining room. It takes ten more minutes of waiting, but he finally shows up. I’ve known Dr. Dunne a long
time now, and I can tell just by the look on his face that my MRI results are good.
“Nothing has really changed,” he tells me. “The lesions are all just in your lower spinal cord.”
My shoulders sag. “That’s good.”
He raises his eyebrows at me. “Everything going all right otherwise?”
I nod. “Good, actually.”
He smiles. “Well, I’m sorry you had to come in for nothing. I hope the parking wasn’t too awful.”
“It’s all right,” I tell him. “My girlfriend dropped me off at the door.”
“Girlfriend, huh?” Dr. Dunne rewards me with one of his rare smiles. “Is that the same one from last year?”
I nod.
He raises just one eyebrow now. “Thinking about getting hitched soon?”
I almost laugh at Dr. Dunne, who always speaks in such technical terms, talking about “getting hitched.” The truth is, I’d love it if Anna and I got
hitched. I’d be over the moon. Now that we’re living together and things are going so well, I have no doubt in my mind that she’s the one I want to spend
the rest of my life with. But she’s got a phobia about weddings, so I’m sure that a proposal will result in a bunch more group sessions with Dr. Schultz. I
figure we can wait a while for that.
Also, I need to come up with the perfect proposal.
“Not right away,” I say. “But… maybe someday.”
Dr. Dunne nods his approval. I notice his own wedding band on the fourth digit of his left hand. I wonder what the wife of a man like Dr. Dunne is
like.
I hear my phone buzz. That’s probably Anna, telling me she’s back in the parking garage.
“I’ll see you in a year, Matt,” he says. “As long as nothing else comes up.”
I hope to God it won’t.
I leave the examining room and wheel outside to the parking lot to find Anna. I see her car in one of the spots, and I wave to her to let her know that
I’m here. She brings the car around, but instead of letting me get in the passenger side, she opens the driver’s side door. She steps out of the car and that’s
when I get the shock of my life.
Anna is wearing a long, white dress.
What the hell?
“What…?” I manage.
“Do you like it?” she asks me. She twirls and the skirt lifts into the air. “I bought it while you were at your appointment.”
“I…do like it,” I say. “But… why would you buy something like that? Where do you think you’re going to wear it?”
She smiles sheepishly. “I don’t know. Our wedding?”
 I am speechless. I am literally speechless.
“I know you haven’t asked me yet,” she says. “But I assume you will shortly. So I thought I’d be prepared.”
“You…” I manage to say. “You want to get married? To me?”
“Of course I do!” she exclaims as if I’ve said something ridiculous. Granted, we’ve never discussed marriage, but considering everything makes her
freak out, it was only logical to think a wedding would freak her out. She certainly panics enough when we’ve been invited to weddings. “We’re living
together, after all. I certainly have no desire to have a relationship with any other man. Why?” She cocks her head at me. “Are you interested in exploring
relationships with other women?”
“No!” I say quickly, before her imagination runs away with her. “Absolutely not. You know I only want you, Anna. And I definitely want to marry
you. Soon.” I smile up at her. “You just… you surprised me, that’s all.”
She smiles at me as she settles into my lap in her pristine white dress with the tag still on. “I did, did I?”
Anna and her palindromes. When we have kids, our daughter will certainly be named Eve and our son will be Otto.
“Sex at noon taxes,” I say.
“Sit on a potato pan, Otis,” Anna says.
“Nosegay ages on,” I say.
“Never odd or even,” she says.
“Don’t nod,” I retort.
Anna looks deep into my eyes and I can feel her hot breath: “A man, a plan, a canal…”
Panama.
 A Letter to the Readers From Anna Flint
To the readers:

Annabelle Costa, the author of this novel, would like to thank you for downloading and reading Crazy in Love. Ms. Costa worked hard on this book—
she spent approximately fifteen months, two weeks, three days, five hours, three minutes, and fifteen seconds writing and researching. This work includes
three hours and twenty-five minutes spent looking a multitude of pages of palindromes. Although I’m not sure why she would consider that part work.
During the time Ms. Costa was writing this novel, on exactly fifteen occasions, she snapped at the co-inhabitants of her home to, “Leave me alone! I’m
trying to write!” On thirty-seven different occasions, she stayed up far too late writing and was groggy and all around unpleasant to be around the following
day. One six occasions, she sneezed on her keyboard and subsequently failed to properly clean and decontaminate it. If you visit the home of Ms. Costa and
use her computer, I would strongly recommend that you thoroughly wash and sterilize your hands afterwards.
While Ms. Costa recognizes that you most certainly have a busy life, she would be very appreciative if you would take 60 seconds or perhaps up to
120 seconds to go on Amazon to write a review of this book. Or send her an email at razberripie@gmail.com to tell her how much you loved or hated the
book. She also invites you to visit her website at http://annabellecosta.blogspot.com/.
Finally, Ms. Costa would like to suggest that you read one of her many other novels, all available in Amazon’s Kindle Store. But none of them have
palindromes in them so I’m not sure why you’d want to read those.

Sincerely,
Anna Flint

P.S. Ms. Costa has tacked on an excerpt from her book The Ugly Duckling at the end of this document. I presume it is a book featuring unfortunate looking
poultry.
Acknowledgements

I’ve always wondered if people read acknowledgements, aside from the people actually being acknowledged. I only read them if I think I might get
mentioned, and if I didn’t, it’s of course very traumatic. (Reading the acknowledgements can be quite the emotional roller coaster.) Sometimes I
accidentally read them because the book ended abruptly and I thought I was still reading the book. And I’m like, “Why is Holden Caulfield thanking his
agent? Why does he even have an agent? This book is confusing.”
And if you do read the acknowledgements (on purpose), what are you looking for? Do you want to know if I’m thanking my mother? Is that it? Are
you going to report back to my mom and tell her that I didn’t thank her in the acknowledgements of my book? Please don’t do that. She’s got enough to
nag me about already—really, you’ll just be adding to her grief.
Oh my God, I’m three paragraphs in to this acknowledgement already and I haven’t even managed to thank anybody yet!
I’d mostly like to thank everyone who sludged through this book in its early stages. That includes J. Giresi, J. Saman, Hailey, and Molly Mirren. Thank
you so, so much. Also, thank you to Melanie for your input on the cover, and the roughly twenty billion versions of it that I went through.
And… thank you to my mother? For giving birth to me, feeding me, housing me, and clothing me until the age of eighteen. And also, for not reading
any books I’ve written that have sex in them. Thank you so much for that.
Please enjoy an excerpt from my other novel…

The Ugly Duckling

Let me tell you a little bedtime story:
Once upon a time, on a lovely summer day on the farm, a mother duck was sitting on her eggs. Eventually, all the eggs started to crack and several
cute little ducklings were born. All except the biggest, fattest of the eggs—that one just didn’t want to crack open for anything.
When the egg finally did hatch, out popped the ugliest duckling anyone had ever seen! As the ugly duckling got older, the situation just got worse. For
starters, her mother made her get these railroad track braces all over her teeth. With rubber bands connecting her bottom and top jaws that would snap open
at the least opportune time, like when she was talking to a cute duck in her class. And her hair was this mousy (ducky?) brown color, and was so
ridiculously frizzy that the duckling had to fight it into a ponytail every day to keep it from getting in her face and blinding her.
And if all that wasn’t bad enough, while anxiously studying for the SATs, the duckling managed to pack on another ten pounds to the thirty extra
pounds she had been carrying—none of which was flattering to her five foot three inch duckling frame. (Stupid Cheetos—why do they have to be so
cheesy and delicious?)
Okay, fine. You got me. The duckling was me. And I wasn’t so much poultry as a seventeen-year-old girl. And I wasn’t so much born on a farm as in
the town of Syracuse. But all the rest is true.
And of course, like in every fairy tale, there was a handsome prince. His name was Prince Caleb Martin. Yes, I know that isn’t as regal a name as
Prince Charming, but trust me, he was the handsomest of all boys in the Kingdom of Syracuse. Seriously, that prince had it going on. Aside from being a
star quarterback at our tiny high school, he was all lean muscles rippling throughout his six-foot frame. And above the neck, he wasn’t too hard on the eyes
either—sparkling blue eyes, dimples when he smiled, and thick sandy hair that was always slightly wind-tousled, even during fifth period English.
At this point, maybe you’re confused. What does an ugly duckling have to do with a handsome prince? I must be getting my fairy tales mixed up.
Except in this fairy tale, the ugly duckling and the handsome prince actually do meet. At the local dog park.
You know how in all those Disney cartoons, the heroes always have a sidekick? The Little Mermaid had that Jamaican crab, Aladdin had his talking
monkey, and Pocahontas had some sort of rodent that used to follow her around, I think. My sidekicks were my two dogs, Freckles and Misty.
Both of them were rescues from the local pound. Misty was a large dog, nearly half my size, all black with these flecks of white, while Freckles was
smaller, gray-white, with little brown speckles on her nose that reminded me of (you guessed it) freckles. Freckles was a crazy ball of energy. When she
was home, she was always bouncing off the walls. Literally—she actually slammed into our wall once in her unbridled enthusiasm. The only way to wear
her down was to spend an hour or two tossing a stick as far as I could and letting her retrieve it. Whereas elderly Misty would just sit around and watch,
lazing in a sleepy lump on the grass.
God, I miss those dogs. Misty died only a year later, and Freckles lasted another eight years, but they’re both long gone. Honestly, I’d go back to being
an ugly duckling again if it meant I could get them back.
Okay. Enough being sentimental. This bedtime story isn’t going to tell itself.
Prince Caleb had a sidekick too—one perhaps better suited to a handsome prince. She was a beautiful golden retriever named (uncreatively) Goldy.
She had thick yellow fur covering her sleek, aerodynamic body, and she swiftly intercepted a stick I had thrown for Freckles to catch.
Isn’t that what you call a “Meet Cute”? My parents met for the first time when my mom was throwing a stick at her dog and my dad’s dog grabbed it
instead. Aww. Kind of makes you want to throw up a little in your mouth, doesn’t it?
It wasn’t like that anyway. When Goldy trotted back to me to return the stick, Freckles flew into a furious rage, then started barking her head off at
Goldy. Then she peed angrily on the grass. I thought there was going to be some serious fighting at the point that Prince Caleb trotted over on his Great
White Nikes and said, “Shit, I’m so sorry about that!”
I had never seen Prince Caleb really close up before. Usually I’d just see him on the football field, waving to us peasants in the stands, or maybe across
a classroom. When he looked at me, his eyes were so startlingly blue that it almost made me blush. His eyes were like the untouched water of the Pacific
Ocean. I could have spent hours writing bad poetry about Caleb’s eyes.
But here’s the thing: I was an ugly duckling. I understood that handsome princes don’t ordinarily (or ever) fall in love with ugly ducklings. At the very
least, they stick to their own species. So even though Caleb was nice to look at, I didn’t harbor any delusions of a happily ever after involving the two of us.
“It’s okay,” I said with a shrug. “It’s good for Freckles to get thwarted every once in a while. Otherwise, she thinks she’s invincible.”
Caleb laughed. “Okay, well, as long as we’re teaching her a valuable life lesson.”
He pulled a rubber ball out of his pocket and threw it. It was a perfect throw, soaring through the air in an elegant arc across the entire dog park. Boy,
Freckles would have been in heaven if Caleb owned her. Goldy retrieved the ball for Caleb, but then returned to my side, barking excitedly at the stick I
was still holding. Caleb seemed amused.
“I think she likes the stick better,” he noted. “Could I borrow it from you, Libby? Or would it make Freckles too jealous?”
I stared at Caleb, slack-jawed. How did this handsome prince know my name? I mean, Prince Charming didn’t know Cinderella’s name when she
showed up for that royal ball… and she was beautiful. Then again, Cinderella and Prince Charming never shared fifth period English. So it made sense.
I handed the stick over to Caleb, trying to keep my arm from shaking. “No problem. Freckles will get over it.”
Freckles yipped at me in protest.
Caleb grinned. “Dogs can be really emotional, huh?”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s for sure.”
“Did you know that dogs can read your emotions just from your facial expression?”
“I believe it,” I said. Misty had an uncanny ability to know when I was having a bad day and shower attention on me. Freckles wasn’t nearly as
perceptive.
“I never knew this place existed,” Caleb said, looking around the grassy dog park with appreciation. “We only inherited Goldy a few months ago when
my cousin moved to an apartment building that didn’t allow dogs.”
“It’s great,” I said, absently making a little hole in the dirt with my sneaker. “I come here at least a few days a week.”
Caleb raised his sand-colored eyebrows at me. “Which days do you usually come?”
At first, I couldn’t figure out why he was asking me. Then I realized—he wanted to come here on the days I was here. Prince Caleb Martin wanted to
hang out with me, Ugly Duckling Extraordinaire.
Except over the next several months, he stopped being Prince Caleb, and just became my good friend Caleb. He and I met at the dog park several days
a week, and we spent hours talking to each other. I found out that he was scared his parents were headed for a divorce, and that he really didn’t want to be a
football player his whole life but he couldn’t figure out anything else he was good at. I told him that my dream ever since I was five years old was to be a
vet and spend my life taking care of sick animals.
Some days we got so caught up in talking that we didn’t leave the dog park until the kingdom fell into blackness. If that happened, Caleb always
gallantly insisted on escorting me home. When we walked, he’d stand so close to me.
And all the while, I would grit my teeth and chant to myself: Handsome princes don’t fall in love with Ugly Ducklings. Handsome princes don’t fall in
love with Ugly Ducklings.
It worked. For a little while. Christ, I’m not made of stone.
The thing is, when Caleb listened, he got this little crease between his sandy eyebrows. It was that little crease that first made me fall in love with him.
It made me feel like he was really listening to me—that he was the only person that had really listened to me and appreciated me in my whole life. So
despite my best efforts, I found myself falling head over heels for Prince Caleb of Syracuse High. And there were moments when we were alone together at
the dog park, watching the sun go down, when I thought to myself: well, why can’t the handsome prince fall for the ugly duckling? Is it really so
ridiculous?
Fairy tales always have happy endings. I wish I could say the same about this little bedtime story. The ugly duckling did evolve into an actually pretty
hot-looking swan, if I do say so myself. But as for the blossoming romance between the ugly duckling and Prince Caleb, that had a very unhappy ending.
But that will be a story for another night. After all, I don’t want to give you nightmares.