I HATED LIVING IN THE SMALL AND CLAUSTROPHOBIC
atmosphere of my house. It didn’t feel like home anymore. I felt like an unwanted guest. I hated being waited on all the time. I hated that my parents were so patient with me. I did. That’s the truth. They didn’t do anything wrong. They were just trying to help me. But I hated them. And I hated Dante too.
And I hated myself for hating them. So there it was, my own vicious cycle. My own private universe of hate.
I thought it would never be over.
I thought my life would never get better. But it did get better with my new casts. I could bend my knees. I used Fidel for another week. Then my arm cast came off and I could use my crutches. I asked my dad to put Fidel in the basement so I wouldn’t have to look at that stupid wheelchair ever again.
With the full use of my hands, I could bathe myself. I took out my journal and this is what I wrote: I TOOK A SHOWER!
I was actually almost happy. Me, Ari, almost happy. “Your smile is back.” That’s what Dante said.
“Smiles are like that. They come and go.”
My arm was sore. The physical therapist gave me some exercises. Look at me, I can move my arm. Look at me.
I woke up one day, made my way to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. Who are you? I made my way to the kitchen. My mom was there, drinking a cup of coffee and looking over her lesson plans for the new school year.
“Planning for the future, Mom?” “I like to be prepared.”
I sat myself down across from her. “You’re a good girl scout.” “You hate that about me, don’t you?”
“Why do you say that?”
“You hated that whole thing, that whole scout thing.” “Dad made me go.”
“You ready to go back to school?”
I held up my crutches. “Yeah, I get to wear shorts every day.”
She poured me a cup of coffee and combed my hair with her fingers. “You want a haircut?”
“No. I like it.”
She smiled. “I like it too.”
We drank coffee together, me and my mom. We didn’t talk a lot. Mostly I watched her look through her folders. The morning light always came through the kitchen. And just then, she looked young. I thought she was really beautiful. She was beautiful. I envied her. She had always known exactly who she was.
I wanted to ask her, Mom, when will I know who I am? But I didn’t.
Me and my crutches walked back into my room and took out my journal. I’d been avoiding writing in it. I think I was afraid all my anger would spill out on the pages. And I just didn’t want to look at all that rage. It was a different kind of pain. A pain I couldn’t stand. I tried not to think. I just started writing:
-
School starts in five days. Junior year. Guess I’ll have
to go to school on crutches. Everyone will notice me. Shit.
-
I see myself driving down a desert road in a pickup, no one else around. I’m listening to Los Lobos. I see myself lying on the bed of the pickup truck, staring up at all the stars. No light pollution.
-
Physical therapy will be coming up soon. Doctor says swimming will be very good. Swimming will make me think of Dante. Shit.
-
When I’m well enough, I’m going to start lifting weights. Dad has his old weights in the basement.
-
Dante’s leaving in a week. I’m glad. I need a break from him. I’m sick of him coming over every day just because he feels bad. I don’t know if we will ever be
friends again.
-
I want a dog. I want to walk him every day.
-
Walking every day! I am in love with that thought.
-
I don’t know who I am.
-
What I really want for my birthday: for someone
to talk about my brother. I want to see his picture on one of the walls of our house.
-
Somehow I’d hoped that this would be the summer that I would discover that I was alive. The world my mom and dad said was out there waiting for me.
That world doesn’t actually exist.
Dante came over that evening. We sat on the steps of the front porch. He stretched out his arm, the one that had been broken in the accident. I stretched out my arm, the one that had been broken in the accident. “All better,” he said.
We both smiled.
“When something gets broken, it can be fixed.” He stretched out his arm again. “Good as new.”
“Maybe not good as new,” I said. “But good anyway.”
His face had healed. In the evening light, he was perfect again. “I went swimming today,” he said.
“How was it?”
“I love swimming.” “I know,” I said.
“I love swimming,” he said again. He was quiet for a little while. And then he said, “I love swimming—and you.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Swimming and you, Ari. Those are the things I love the most.” “You shouldn’t say that,” I said.
“It’s true.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t true. I just said you shouldn’t say it.” “Why not?”
“Dante, I don’t—”
“You don’t have to say anything. I know that we’re different. We’re not the same.”
“No, we’re not the same.”
I knew what he was saying and I wished to God he was someone else, someone who didn’t have to say things out loud. I just kept nodding.
“Do you hate me?”
I don’t know what happened just then. Since the accident, I’d been mad at everyone, hated everyone, hated Dante, hated Mom and Dad, hated myself. Everyone. But right then, I knew I didn’t really hate everyone. Not really. I didn’t hate Dante at all. I didn’t know how to be his friend. I didn’t know how to be anybody’s friend. But that didn’t mean I hated him. “No,” I said. “I don’t hate you, Dante.”
We just sat there, not saying anything.
“Will we be friends? When I come back from Chicago?” “Yes,” I said.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Do you promise?”
I looked into his perfect face. “I promise.” He smiled. He wasn’t crying.
