I should never have brought attention to the fact that I can’t hike or do anything fun at all. Rob obviously can’t push me to take medical risks, and he clearly hadn’t thought about how dating me would ruin his life. He’d never hike again without feeling guilty. He’d never even be able to so much as go for a jog without leaving me behind. We couldn’t ever do any normal couple things together. We couldn’t take casual strolls, or hop into a car without thinking or planning ahead of time. He’d have to wait for me to break down my wheelchair and consider what car I might fit in every single time we traveled anywhere, even for something as simple as grabbing coffee.
Forever.
I don’t even blame him for racing home, because I’d probably have done the same thing if our roles were reversed. I mean, how stupid am I? One dinner together, and then halfway through our second date, I suggest he quit his job and move to Colorado? When he doesn’t warm to the idea, I try to bludgeon him into admitting he’d rather build furniture?
What did I expect him to do? If he had asked me to move to Atlanta… Well I might actually consider that since Trig’s there. But if he’d suggested it a year ago, I’d have asked security to remove him from the building. And I tried to convince him to quit helping his family and stop being a pleaser for them… so he could do it for me instead? I made one catastrophic mistake after another.
What I wouldn’t give for a lunch do-over, but by now he’s probably taking off on a flight back home.
I pick up my phone and call Dr. Anthony back.
“Hello?” he says. “Did I have the time wrong?”
I clear my throat. “Uh, no, I’m sorry. Something came up.”
“Oh, it’s no problem. In fact, I’ve still got the other doctors here, if you’d be willing to have the meeting now.”
I shoot a quick email to my assistant and ask her to push back my other meetings. “Sure. I’d say I’m even more motivated right now than I was when we last spoke.”
I sit through their video presentation, which on the whole is pretty convincing. There aren’t consistent results yet, but ten percent of patients have had dramatic improvements, and another fifteen percent have reported some kind of positive shift. Of course, the risks aren’t nominal, either.
“You’re saying there’s nearly a fifty percent chance I’ll lose all sensation and mobility from T10 down if I do more than one procedure, and over thirty percent from just one?”
One of Dr. Anthony’s fellows, a rail thin man in his thirties with sparse hair asks, “You currently report sensation through your trunk and pelvic region?”
“That’s correct. Intermittent sensation in my legs and feet. Usually I can feel things fine in the morning, but by the time I go to bed, I typically can’t feel much anymore.”
He nods. “That’s not unheard of, but yes. You could lose that sensation. Anywhere from the injury site down, as a result of the attempts we are making to restore function, we could worsen the damage.”
I gulp. “I can move my legs a little, and my feet. It varies based on the day and time, but what about that?”
He nods. “The same. I’d say a fifty percent chance. The surgery will most likely either worsen your current situation or improve it.”
I steel myself for my last question. My most important question. “Could I lose bladder function?”
Dr. Anthony nods. “If you lose sensation, you’ll likely lose bladder control as well.”
Oh my gosh. “Half the people who had bladder control lost it?”
Dr. Anthony shakes his head. “Maybe it’s not quite that dire. It might have been closer to one in three.”
My hands shake. I could lose every bit of sensation I have. I could lose bladder function. I could lose balance in my torso. “And you guys have sort of danced around this but what exactly is the mortality rate for the study currently?”
“Well, we had a handful of participants who didn’t meet criterion,” the fellow says. “But they lied to gain entry. We didn’t discover the omissions or outright falsifications until after the procedure.”
“What does that mean exactly?” I ask.
Dr. Anthony scowls. “It means that they suffered from undisclosed complicating factors, and we would not have included them in the study had we known.”
Which means their numbers are bad. “You said less than half a percent. How many total procedures have you performed?”
“We have completed over fourteen hundred procedures,” Dr. Anthony says.
“And how many deaths?”
“We have only performed this procedure on four hundred and thirty-eight different patients, because most patients required several procedures.”
“Okay.” Answer the question.
Dr. Anthony’s voice sounds appropriately funereal when he says, “We’ve lost thirteen patients, but only four of those met the requirements of the study. The other nine falsified their admittance paperwork.”
“We hired a private investigator to verify the reports after the first few bad outcomes resulting from the medical history omissions,” the fellow says.
Everything is so relative. A hundred is a pretty big number if you’re talking about elephants, or if you’re counting pimples on your face. It’s a substantial number if you’re discussing something like cookies you might eat in a day. But if you’re talking dollar bills, it’s not enough to get you from Colorado to Georgia, for instance.
For some reason, when Dr. Anthony admits that nearly one in a hundred and twenty people who have the stem cell procedure performed in conjunction with a scar cell reduction die, one hundred and twenty feels like a very small number.
My odds of dying seem quite high.
Last month I’d have politely declined. Last week I’d have said heck no. But today, my future without the use of my legs seems bleaker than it ever has before.
“I’ll let you know.”
“We’ll need you to come out for a pre-operative battery of tests,” he says. “Before you can proceed. You don’t have to make any final decisions in order to do the testing, but you should know that I can only hold this particular slot for another two days. After that, we’re looking at the late Fall.”
“Understood.” I end the call.
When Brooklyn opens the door, I jolt in my chair.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Your brother’s on line one, and I saw you were finally off the phone. Should I push the strategy session back again?”
“Push it. I need to talk to him.” I pick up the line. “Hey Trig.”
“Brekka,” he says. “I hear you’re kissing someone in your office?”
Oh come on. “Since when do you believe gossip?”
“Since Jack from accounting sent me a photo of you kissing a guy. I just texted it to you, because that looks a lot like someone I know. And while I badly want to punch him in the nose, if it’s who I think it is, I might need to subcontract that job.”
My cell phone dings. I’m a little too eager for the image. It’s grainy and clearly been blown up way too far, but it’s definitely Rob, his huge, defined arms resting on my wheelchair, his head angled toward me, our lips barely brushing. My heart hammers at the memory of it.
It was the best kiss I’ve ever had.
And my wheelchair takes up a full third of the frame. I text Dr. Anthony and let him know I’m coming out for the testing.
“I take that silence as an admission.”
“I’m an adult, Trig.”
“That guy is a menace,” he yells. “You flew out here to yell at him, if you recall, for sleeping with my fiancée!”
“Letting her fall asleep on his lap is not the same as sleeping with him.”
“You’re splitting hairs. And how are you on his side, now? I hate this guy, I swear I do.”
“You don’t really hate him,” I say.
“What makes you say that?” Trig practically growls into the phone.
“If you really hated him, you’d be planning how to destroy his car dealerships. You’d be ruining his life, not grumbling at me on the phone about how awful he is, and how you’d like to hire someone to punch his unbelievably handsome face.”
“His face is not handsome. It’s practically paunchy.”
“I don’t think you’re using that word right,” I say.
“Of course I am.” Trig sulks better than any preschool kid I’ve ever seen. “It means baggy and blotchy or something like that.”
“I think it’s kind of specific to the belly region.”
“Like you know. You’ve never used the word paunchy in your life.”
“Did you join a vocabulary club or something?” I exhale. “Wait, did Geo get you one of those calendars? Is paunchy the word for today? No, wait, that can’t be it, because then you’d have used it correctly.”
“Brekka, focus. Why are my employees sending me photos of you making out in the boardroom?”
“You mean former employees?” I scowl, not that he can see it.
“Oh please. You aren’t going to fire them. You’ve probably already printed it up onto a poster and tacked it to your wall. Once I hang up, you’ll reapply your lipstick and smoosh kissy lips all over the border.”
“You’re such an older brother. You’re irritating in the extreme, you know.” And I totally want to print it on to poster sized paper, and I might, if the resolution was better. Of course, I’d need to crop myself out…
“Do not print that image up.”
I smile. He knows me too well. “Some ideas are too good to ignore.”
“You can’t date him, Brekka.”
“I already did,” I say.
“So it’s over?”
My heart twists into a knot and I can’t breathe. Is it? Did I destroy it already?
“Is silence an admission or do you not know?” Trig grunts. “Hello?”
I still don’t know what to say.
“He’s there now, isn’t he? Oh my—are you on his lap right now Brekka? Brekka, say something.”
I splutter. “Knock that off. I have the scholarship dinner tonight, so he flew back home already.” My voice cracks on the word already and tears threaten behind my eyes. “I think I screwed it up, Trig.” I hate the wobble in my voice. I hate it so much.
“Oh B, I’m sorry. I’m sure you didn’t. It’s not like Batman could screw up with Robin. And that’s the problem. He’s not good enough for you, not by a long shot.”
“Okay, first, Robin’s a guy.”
“Um, Rob IS a guy. And am I the only one feeling how perfect this comparison is?”
“Yes, because it’s not. What I meant was, Batman’s a guy. And I’m a girl. And secondly.” Fury floods my chest. “He’s not good enough for me? How dare you say that?”
“He’s not even a college grad, B. I’m not trying to upset you. He’s not smart enough, he’s not rich enough, and he’s not impressive enough in any other areas to make up for those things.”
“Yes, I was just thinking I need to marry someone richer than me. There are forty-three men on earth that qualify, and thirty-nine of them are already married. The other four are over sixty-five. You’re right though. I shouldn’t let age stand in my way. After all, if they’re ancient, I’ll just inherit their dynasty sooner. Good call.”
“Oh, knock it off. My point is that he won’t be able to bear up under that kind of strain. It’ll eat away at him. It’s part of being a guy.”
“Maybe your type of guy. Stop being a moron, Trig. Shut off that spigot that’s spewing jealousy and competition and look at it objectively. He’s kind, he’s bright, he works hard, and he cares about his family, including your future wife. He considers her to be part of his family, you know. I’m positive he wasn’t lying when he told me that.”
“I’ll consider my wife family, too,” Trig mutters. “And I still want to kiss her.”
“Oh, stop. Of all my concerns, Geo isn’t even on the list.”
“So you do have concerns.”
I grit my teeth. “Of course I do. Don’t be stupid.” I breathe in through my mouth and out through my nose, although that might be backward. I can never remember what I’m supposed to do to calm down when I’m actually upset. “I told you, I think I already messed it up. I might or might not have suggested he move here.” I bite my lip.
“You what?”
“Not like, explicitly. But I might have mentioned that he could make furniture anywhere.”
“I think I have bad reception. Did you say make furniture?”
I close my eyes. He told me that in confidence, and now I’m blabbing it to Trig. I need to shut my mouth. “I told him something else that really upset him.” This should distract the heck out of Trig.
“What now? I can’t keep up with this conversation. Is there like a Cliff Notes version you can email me?”
“I told him I’m thinking of doing the stem cell procedure.”
Only the sound of breathing comes through the phone.
“Trig?”
“Were you serious?”
“I’ve spoken with Dr. Anthony’s entire team about the details and booked the battery of testing. I’m flying out for all of that tomorrow.”
“This was Rob’s idea?”
“He’s pissed, actually. We fought about it before he left.”
“I told you he was stupid.”
“You won’t ever call him that, Bernard, or I’ll never talk to you again. I’m not kidding. Not to me, not to anyone.”
“Fine, geez. Calm down.”
“No. Words have meaning. You’ll promise me.”
“I promise, sheesh.”
“He’s upset, but Trig, I’m only doing this because of Rob.”
“What does that mean?” he asks.
“When I met him, I can’t explain it.” I wrap the phone cord around my finger. “For the first time since the car crash, I long for something.”
“You what? I couldn’t understand.”
“I long for … I don’t know. Something. More than I have. I’m longing for a future, I guess.”
Trig’s tone is flat, emotionless. “With Rob.”
“With Rob or someone like him. I realized I’m tired of sitting on hold in my own life. I’m tired of mourning my old dreams. I want new dreams. I want to move ahead. I want to move on my own, even if it’s in arm braces or whatever. I’m going to try whatever it takes to wrestle my life back.”
“Maybe I can try and deal with the idea, if he makes you this happy.”
I wouldn’t describe any of my feelings as happy. I turn the phone over and look at the photo of Rob kissing me. I’m pissed Jack snapped a photo of me, but I’m grateful to him, too. Now I have this moment to hold and cherish and look at over and over. I want to fire him and promote him at the same time. But even my feelings when our lips met for the first time weren’t happiness. I felt torture and anguish and unadulterated joy and exultation and longing all at the same time. A chill runs from my toes to my scalp, just thinking about that moment, that one perfect moment.
“I fly out first thing tomorrow,” I say. “And I was thinking about coming by Atlanta on my way home.”
“To see me or your new boyfriend?”
“Oh, stop sulking. To see you. We didn’t really get to hang out last time. I need some face time with my most obnoxious sibling.”
“I’m your only sibling, unless Dad has some true confessions to make.”
“Which is why you’re also my funniest, my smartest, my dumbest and my most beloved brother. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“I’ll clear tomorrow for you,” Trig says.
“What? You’re going to cancel your massage, your facial and your pedicure? I’m so honored.”
“Oh, the massage is early enough I won’t need to cancel that, thankfully.”
I snicker. “Bye Trig. See you tomorrow afternoon or early evening.”
“Brekka, all joking aside, I’m really proud of you. I know this is a hard thing to do, not just because of risks. I know the hope is …hard to deal with.”
He and I both know it’s not the hope that hurts, but the death of it. “Thanks.”
“It’s the right call.”
I really hope he’s right.