Are You Alone on Purpose? Page 4
“Yes,” said Alison. She felt confused. I need to be alone, she thought. I need to think.
“Well,” said Mrs. Shandling. She exchanged a glance with her husband. “I was thinking,” she said. “Maybe we should talk about Harry. About his accident. I know part of me . . . well, I know it’s awful, but part of me can’t help being a little glad.” Mrs. Shandling’s voice stumbled, and recovered. “I just wondered, Alison, if maybe you’d want to talk about this a little bit.”
No, thought Alison. The word shot into her mind like a bullet. She looked at her father.
“You know,” said the professor, “Harry probably won’t bother you again, when he goes back to school. He’ll have other things to think about.”
“How do you feel about that?” asked Mrs. Shandling. “Alison?”
Alison stared at her mother.
I wish your son were even more handicapped.
No, thought Alison. The pounding in her forehead picked up in tempo. No. No. No.
“You must feel something,” her mother insisted.
Tentatively, carefully, Alison asked, “How do you feel about it?”
Mrs. Shandling looked surprised, then relieved. “Well, naturally, it’s a terrible thing. He was—is—a nasty boy, and I hated that he was so mean to you. I wanted that to stop. But not this way. But I’m also relieved that we won’t have to worry about you anymore.”
Good, thought Alison, through the pounding in her head. Don’t worry about me.
Alison’s father was nodding.
“That’s what I think too,” said Alison hastily.
She had to get out of there.
“Wow,” said Paulina, much later that afternoon. Alison had told her everything. They were at the de Silvas’, upstairs in Paulina’s room, lying on the double bed and looking up at its canopy. It was a ridiculous bed, with its extravagant pink ruffles and white frills. But Paulina loved it. “You say he’ll never walk again?” Paulina continued. “And your mom—”
“It’s just that I keep hearing her saying, ‘I wish your son were even more handicapped.’ And then Harry’s accident happening the same day.” She didn’t mention what she herself had been thinking. She didn’t say that she’d been hoping something would happen to keep Harry out of her way.
“Wow,” said Paulina again. She was silent for a time, clearly deep in thought. “Chocolate?” she said finally, reaching over and pulling the rewrapped half of a big Cadbury bar from the nightstand. She undid the foil to expose sixteen little squares.
Alison took a square to be polite. “Okay.”
They chewed. “So,” said Paulina after eating three squares very slowly, “wham. Wheelchair city.”
Alison sat up and leaned against the headboard. Paulina stayed flat on her back, one arm flung over her eyes.
“D’you think your mother’s a witch?” Paulina asked, conversationally. “D’you think she cursed Harry?”
Alison nearly choked. “Paulina!”
“Just asking,” said Paulina. She slanted a look up at Alison. “It’s a pretty incredible coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know,” Alison said. “Look. I guess I’m still just stunned. I mean. . .well. . .”
“It’s not that I believe in witches and curses and stuff,” said Paulina. “But you never know, do you? Maybe your mother doesn’t understand her own powers.” She sat up. “I saw a movie like that once on TV. This girl got really mad ’cause these other kids ruined her senior prom? She wasn’t a witch, exactly, but she had these powers, and then—”
“This isn’t a movie, Paulina.”
“I know that,” said Paulina, with dignity. “Look, I was there too, and your mother was pretty mad. I wouldn’t have wanted her cursing me.”
“She just gets like that. Especially about Adam.” And me, Alison added silently. It was about me, too. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t believe in that magic stuff. It’s all just an incredible coincidence.”
“Maybe,” said Paulina. She leaned forward. “But you know what?”
“What?” Alison said automatically. She thought talking to Paulina had probably been a bad idea. Her head wasn’t any clearer. It probably was just a coincidence. And even if her mother...
But Alison’s mother wasn’t the only one who had wished Harry Roth ill.
“I understand if you don’t believe in magic,” Paulina was saying. She took another chocolate square and bit off one small corner. “But listen. Do you believe in God?”
“What? Why?”
“Harry deserved it,” said Paulina meaningfully. “And Harry got it.”
Alison stared at her.
“Divine justice,” said Paulina, almost smugly. “You didn’t think of that, did you?”
“Actually,” said Alison slowly, “I think maybe I did.”
“There you go, then.” Paulina settled back on her elbows. “I guess the Lord does answer prayers. Makes you feel good, doesn’t it?” She reached for some more chocolate.
No, thought Alison, it doesn’t. She watched Paulina eat.
She felt very alone.
On the first day of ninth grade, Alison’s homeroom teacher assigned seating alphabetically. “Roth,” Mr. Grandison called, when he reached the fourth desk in the fourth row. “Harold Roth.”
Harry didn’t swagger to his seat. He didn’t mutter, under his breath but loud enough to hear, “That’s Mister Roth to you,” as he’d done the previous year. Instead, there was an uneasy, embarrassed silence. To Alison, the classroom, empty of Harry, was suddenly full of him.
“Harold Roth.”
No one moved.
“Does anyone know Harold Roth?” Mr. Grandison persisted.
The silence elongated. Alison looked around the room. One or two of the people Harry used to hang out with were here. Why didn’t they say something ?
And why didn’t Mr. Grandison already know? What was with this school? Hadn’t Rabbi Roth phoned in?
“Well, okay,” said Mr. Grandison finally. “I’ll find out about Harold. We’ll skip his seat for now.” He moved to the fifth desk in the row. “Shandling, Alison.”
Alison wondered why she wasn’t surprised. “Here,” she said, moving toward the desk.
Mr. Grandison marked his ledger, frowned. “Alison, I see that you were at the same middle school as Harold Roth last year. Do you know him?”
Alison’s stomach lurched a little more. Did she know Harry? What an incredible question. She wet her lips and tried to smile. “Yes,” she said finally. “I know him. Not very well, though.” That was true, she thought.
“Do you know if he’s coming to school this year?” Mr. Grandison persisted.
I don’t know, Alison thought. I really don’t. “No,” she said. “I don’t know for sure....” Her voice drifted off.
“Well, Alison,” said Mr. Grandison, looking impatient, “you seem to know something about Harold. Why don’t you just tell me what it is and I’ll check it out.”
Alison took a breath, let it out, squared her shoulders, and looked straight at Mr. Grandison. “Harry was in an accident a few weeks ago. He hurt his spine pretty badly, and he’s still in the hospital. I don’t know when he’ll be well enough to come to school.” There. She’d said it quite easily after all.
“Oh,” said Mr. Grandison. “Well, I’ll check into that. How awful.” He flushed a little bit. “They should have told me at the office. I don’t know why they didn’t tell me. Well.” He looked at the empty desk, Harry’s desk.
“Alison, if Harold Roth isn’t attending this year, then of course you’ll move up into his seat.” He smiled briskly. “We can’t have a hole in the middle of the room, can we?” He moved on. “Fifth row, first seat. Shelby, Patricia.”
Alison was left staring at the hole in the middle of the classroom.
HARRY
October
“So what happened to you?” asked the teenage boy in the wheelchair. The nurse who had transferred Harry from his
own wheelchair to his new bed at University Hospital’s rehabilitation ward had just left.
Harry looked up warily. He was tired, and he didn’t see how a quick introduction (“Harry, that’s your roommate, Paul Zabriskie. Zee, say hi to Harry Roth”) meant you were instantly best friends with someone. Or maybe they figured fellow cripples would just hit it off automatically, have a great time.
“What do you care, bozo?” he said.
“Oh, I don’t, little boy,” drawled Zabriskie. “I just like the sound of my own voice.” Paul Zabriskie was a lanky, narrow-shouldered sixteen-year-old with dead-white skin, a shock of thick, straight black hair on his head, and an amazing expanse of beard shadowing his bony jaw, chin, and cheeks. His legs—scarcely more than bones—stuck out of a pair of shorts beneath a Jerry Garcia T-shirt. Harry averted his eyes from them.
“That’s good,” he said, after a moment, “because I bet no one else does.”
“Ooohhh,” said Zee. “It’s mean.” He worked his mouth and spat, expertly, in the direction of the room’s sink, twelve feet away. The spittle arced up and then landed in the corner sink with an audible plop. “He sees his chance,” said Zee. “He aims. He scores! The crowd goes wild!”
Harry grimaced. If he’d felt better he would’ve spit right in Zee’s face.
“You bring anything to read?” asked Zee, wheeling over next to Harry. “There isn’t a lot to do in this place. And they’ve restricted my TV hours. They say I watch too many soaps.”
“Closet,” said Harry. “There’re comic books in the milk crates.” He smiled to himself, sardonically.
“Great,” said Zee. He headed for the closet, where nearly every Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle comic book in existence was stacked in chronological order in two large plastic milk crates.
The collection had been a gift from Harry’s father just hours before. In the four weeks since the accident, Rabbi Roth had scoured Boston and Cambridge looking for back issues. He’d then spent many more hours, when he couldn’t be at either the hospital with Harry or at the synagogue, putting the comic books in careful order. He had given them to Harry today, on the occasion of Harry’s transfer to the rehabilitation center.
“Whoopee,” Harry had said that morning, seeing the milk crates. After examining them for a moment, he had added: “Right. I remember these things. I thought they were really cool—when I was eight. What’d you think—I should read them again now that I’m a mutant too?” Clinically, he’d watched his father pale and turn away. He had hurt his father badly just then. He knew it, and he was glad.
This morning they had attached a catheter drainage bag with tape to Harry’s stomach, just above where he’d lost sensation. Harry didn’t like it this way. The tape itched. It might be better on his leg where he wouldn’t feel it. But would people be able to see it there, bulging through his pants?
He lifted his shirt and looked down cautiously. The bag was getting pretty full. He wished someone would come and change it. He had nightmares about it filling up and bursting, splattering him and God knew who else with urine. Or leaking pungently through his clothes. Or what if the bag was full and didn’t burst? What would happen to the pee inside him? Would it back up? Would his bladder explode? No one had said, and Harry couldn’t ask.
There had to be information about it on the Internet, or in a book somewhere, but how was he to find it? Even if he went to the hospital’s library and used their computers, he wasn’t sure he knew how to search properly.
They’d gone on a field trip to the Boston Public Library last year, and the librarian had explained how to use the computers to search for detailed, complex information, the kind you might need for a research paper. There were all kinds of search engines on the Internet, different ones for different kinds of searches. There were also ways to search the library catalogs for books. Of course Harry knew how to find simple things on the Internet, and how to locate a particular book title. But a complicated search like the one he had in mind—where would he even start?
There was another thing Harry needed to know about. But there were mostly women around. Only a few men. And, somehow, it had been only the women who’d asked him if he had any questions. He’d been too embarrassed to tell them what he was worrying about.
And maybe too frightened.
Harry hadn’t heard from Rachel Pearl.
He looked at his roommate, who was still occupied with the comic books. Maybe this Zabriskie kid would know. Maybe Harry would get to know him well enough to ask.
Oh, God. A book would be better. A book would be infinitely better than asking.
They lied to you. They lied by omission. They said the library was important for term papers. They never said you might need it for your life.
At night, they attached a bigger bag to the catheter, one that wouldn’t fill up so fast, and then they hung it from the bed, right where anyone could see it. It was disgusting. At least the small bag could be kept hidden on his body, under his clothes.
But either way, what girl would ever want to look at it? Rachel Pearl? Harry had to laugh. He wouldn’t make it on her short list now. And as for babes like Gina Collarusso, well, forget it.
The bag looked really full now. He touched its plastic side tentatively with a finger and felt the resistance. It needed to be changed. He’d have to push the call button for a nurse. He’d have to ask to have it changed. In front of this Zabriskie kid.
They’d said they’d teach him to take care of himself in this hospital. They said they’d teach him everything he needed to know. Harry hoped it was true.
It was about as much as he dared hope for.
ALISON
November
“Alison,” yelled Mrs. Shandling as the phone rang for the fifth time, “could you please get that?”
The words penetrated into the paragraph Alison was reading. She grabbed for her bedroom phone, managing to pick it up midway through the sixth ring.
“Hello?” she said. There was no response. “Is anyone there?”
Finally there came a reply. “Mrs. Shandling? It’s Avi Roth. Um, Rabbi Roth.”
Harry’s father. Alison was astonished. “No, this is Alison,” she said finally. “Just a minute, Rabbi Roth. I’ll get my mother.”
She put down the receiver and went down the hall and into the den, where her mother was working on a paper for one of her psychology classes. “Mom,” she said, “it’s Rabbi Roth.”
Mrs. Shandling turned away from the desk. Alison could tell she was equally surprised. “What does he want?” she asked.
Alison shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Her mother picked up the extension phone. Unashamedly, Alison lingered, listening in.
“Rabbi Roth. Hello . . . Oh, no, not at all. I’m, uh, actually I’m glad you called. We’ve heard about Harry’s accident, of course, and we’re so very sorry....You got my card, I’m glad.... Oh, you’re welcome . . . .” There was a long pause while Alison’s mother listened. Then she frowned. “Well. I suppose . . . . Right now I’m in the middle of a term paper. . . .If you insist. See you soon, then.”
Mrs. Shandling hung up. She swung in her chair to face Alison. “He wants to come over,” she said. “To talk.”
They stared at each other.
Unable to help herself, Alison went into the family room to peer out the front window and wait for Rabbi Roth. Adam was already there, wearing his favorite rugby shirt and the blue shorts he’d insisted on putting on that morning even though it was really too cold for them. He was sitting on the rug with the earphones on, hands flat on the floor on either side, rocking intensely back and forth. He ignored Alison. Idly, she picked up the CD case to see what he was listening to: it was an old Rolling Stones, one of her mother’s. Some Girls.
“Adam still hasn’t had lunch,” said Mrs. Shandling, wandering in. She knelt down in front of Adam, put her hands on his shoulders to stop him from rocking, and then removed the headphones. “Time to eat lunch,” she said.
Ten minutes later she saw his little brown car come slowly up their street. Rabbi Roth parked in front of their house and got out of the car.
“He’s here,” Alison yelled. She opened the door and watched him come up the walk and steps. “Hi,” she said. She stood aside so he could come into the front hall.
“Hi.” Rabbi Roth looked as uneasy as Alison felt. He stuck out a hand. “How are you?”
Alison shook hands tentatively. “My mom and Adam are in the kitchen.”
“And your father?”
“Uh, at the lab.”
“Oh.”
Rabbi Roth followed Alison to the kitchen, where he greeted her mother and tried to shake hands with Adam, who was sitting at the table with a cup of milk and a plate that contained three sandwich quarters and a number of orange sections. Adam ignored him.
“Coffee?” said Mrs. Shandling. Alison noted that she had just made a fresh pot. “Is decaffeinated okay? Oh, sit, please.”
“Decaffeinated is fine,” said Rabbi Roth. He sat down gingerly on one of the chairs in the breakfast nook, across from Adam. Adam did not look up. He put down the sandwich quarter he’d been nibbling and began to form patterns with the food on his plate.
Alison wondered if she should leave. But she wouldn’t go unless she was asked. She took a seat as well.
She watched her mother pour coffee into two mugs, put out milk. She watched Rabbi Roth watch Adam, who had now lined the sandwich pieces in a row across the plate, with two orange sections between each pair. He put the extra orange sections down beside the plate. Then he picked one of them up and bit into it, staring at the plate.
Rabbi Roth seemed fascinated.
Finally Mrs. Shandling stopped bustling and sat down next to Adam. “You might want to let the coffee sit for a minute,” she advised. “It’s pretty hot.”
“Thanks. I like it hot.” Rabbi Roth sipped.
“Well,” said Alison’s mother. She looked at Rabbi Roth for a moment, a straight look, carefully neutral. Then she looked at her son. “Take one away, Adam. One of the sandwich pieces.”