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Jason and I were on his bed, the bag of jellybeans between us. "Close your eyes," I said, pointing my finger at him like a mother. "We can't play until they're closed."
"Alright, alright," Jason said, using the bar above his bed to pull himself up. His legs
didn't work anymore; they just hung there limp and lifeless, but his arms grew stronger,
more defined everyday. Earlier, Jason flexed his muscles for me and said, "I wish that
bastard would come back now. Just one time, so I could pound my fist into his ugly-ass
nose."
I didn't. He'd been gone seven months, and I still prayed every night, asking God to
keep him away.
"Okay, I'm ready." Jason's eyes pinched tight, mouth hung open. I dug through the bag. They
weren't regular jellybeans, but the fancy, gourmet-flavored kind. I'd bought a bag at the
hospital gift shop right after the accident and been addicted ever since.
I chose a coffee and a chocolate, popped them in his mouth. Right away, his smile let me
know that my combination had been too easy. "Mocha," he said, opening his eyes and
ruffling my hair. "That's one of my favorites."
I grinned even though Jason had won. Five years older than me, my brother was my hero,
and just pleasing him was victory enough.
It hurt watching him struggle to get in and out of his wheelchair. Simple tasks like getting dressed were now laborious chores. Mom told me that I shouldn't hate, but I couldn't help it. I hated Roger so much my stomach burned. Mom said if I wasn't careful the fire of my
hate would melt my heart. I was sure I loved her and Jason too much for my heart to ever
dissolve.
"Hey, Lisa," Jason said, leaning his head back against the wall. "What time is Mom getting
home?"
"About ten-thirty, I guess. She said they might let her off the second shift early because it's Friday." She'd been working double shifts three days a week for six months now. The
collection agencies had finally quit calling, but we weren't out of the woods yet. Mom said
the wolves had only retreated a little; they were still out there waiting, watching.
"Want me to make us dinner, Jas?"
Jason moved himself around on the bed, arms churning like oars. His face revealed his
discomfort. "No, not now, Sis. Can you get me another pillow?"
"Yeah, sure." I walked down the hall to the linen closet, hoping another pillow would
solve the problem. I felt the hate burn again. Roger was the reason Mom had to work so
much, the reason she wasn't here now to take care of Jason. When he left, he took all the
money from their bank account with him, and the medical bills kept piling up.
We got some help from a charity fund set up at the bank. A news crew came to our house,
and we got to be on TV. People donated generously to a young teen crippled in a car
accident. That money went fast though; Jason needed equipment, the house needed
modifications.
Roger had wanted to use the money to start his own business, something about guns and a
training camp for hunters. Hunting was all he ever talked about. They were returning from a
hunting trip the day his truck collided with the buck, sending Jason flying through the
windshield, shattering two vertebrae, the fragments damaging his spinal cord, leaving him
paralyzed from his bellybutton down. He'd always resented me and Jas, a ready-made
family, so I'd questioned what really happened. Mom said it was an accident, plain and
simple, and to think anything else was unbearable.
They fought about the money. Late at night I could hear them: his angry words, Mom's
tears, sometimes a slap or two. He wanted Mom to put Jason in a home, let the state and
someone else take care of him. But Mom stood her ground. One evening Roger came home
and found Mom in with Jason, the stench of excrement overpowering. Intimate knowledge
of the loss of bowel control finally sent him packing. He thought he got the last laugh when
he left us penniless, but after he was gone Mom started smiling again.
I pulled a pillow from the top shelf and brought it to Jason. He held himself up with the bar while I positioned it behind him, just below his shoulder blades, just the way he liked it.
"That better?"
His eyelids fluttered like wings, then closed. "Yeah, much better. Thanks."
I'd asked him once if he ever missed his legs, missed running. He'd shrugged. "Sometimes
I forget what it was like."
Little things wore him out now The rhythm of his breathing told me he was asleep. I
smoothed the blankets, kissed his forehead, climbed in next to him.
Mom said in his dreams he could run again; that's when his memories came alive. I
touched my head to his, clutched his hand, and we were at the beach on summer vacation,
dancing through the waves, racing through the sand. I closed my eyes, and together we
remembered.
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