F. Brejcha: The Cure

“—it’s time to face the world?” I interrupted. “Get out and meet people and stop hiding behind my handicap, feeling guilty and self-pitying? Maria, I know that. All of it.” And I did finally realize it. “But…” It was difficult to explain. “I’m scared. The thought of microscopic machines running around inside my body terrifies me!” My mind flashed back to my last two books.

In front of me, Maria shook her head. “Uh uh. Why does it really scare you?”

For a long time I sat silent, considering her words. I thought about my hiding—that was the only word for it—and the reasons for it. Then I looked down at her, teeth chewing the inside of my cheek lightly as I finally answered.

“I’m afraid because it means no more excuses. No more convenient reason not to mingle and take chances—”

“—of any kind,” she finished. “I know… I guess that would be scary. But damn it! You’re smart, witty, sensitive… in your rare moments of humanity.” She smiled to take the edge off the words. “And I’ve read your books, all of them, and God knows you’re creative. There’s no need to be afraid.” She leaned close, voice low and intense, and apparently startled by the strength of her feelings.

I looked down at her in surprise. It was as if I was seeing her for the first time and all at once I felt somehow naked and embarrassed. I wanted to turn away but couldn’t, and at the same time I wanted to reach out and touch her. But I couldn’t do that either. Suddenly a wave of angry frustration swept over me—anger that I couldn’t move, react. For the first time in years I felt truly trapped; felt that I wanted to react. And not just from the neck up!

I had never imagined that this would happen.

I looked down at the face below me and realized to my surprise that she was pretty. Not beautiful. Her nose was a bit big and the jaw too square, but her soft blue eyes were wonderfully expressive and her mouth was curled in a little twist of concern that touched me. And the whole face was framed by a soft mass of lightly curled chestnut hair that called out to be stroked.

My eyes closed for a moment, burning and suddenly I felt a light touch on my face as Maria dabbed at tears that had materialized, unbidden. Then the touch vanished and I opened my eyes to see her disappear down the stairs hurriedly.

I started to call out to her but changed my mind as I considered my feelings.

Emotions I had repressed for a long time started creeping out from hiding and nudging me; none too gently. And I considered again, really considered this time, what she and others had said.

The accident was not my fault. Jenny’s death was not my fault, nor even that of the other driver. But I had conveniently forgotten about that. I had been hiding. I thought back again over four years of never leaving the house, of just sitting up, watching TV, reading and writing; never seeing anyone and communicating only by fax or mail, except for the rare call that was made to me. Not many of those lately, though. Even sales-people stayed away. I had only tolerated the presence of Maria and the others for the unavoidable personal care I needed. And she had been right: I had relegated them all to the role of just more of my adaptive tools.

I felt ashamed.

Suddenly I heard light footsteps on the stairs and looked up to see Maria reappear, eyes reddened and makeup slightly smeared. “I forgot,” she explained as she reached me and moved my control back next to my face so I could reach. “I’m sorry.” She started to turn away and then turned back. “Oh, I hate to do this on such short notice, but I got a call today from my sister. An emergency has come up at home and I have to leave. The agency is sending over another nurse and I made sure it was a good one. I don’t know when, or if I’ll be back. It all depends on—”

“You’re lying.” It was written all over her face and I was confused. Here I was, suddenly realizing how much I owed her and trying to accept strange feelings that I had not felt for years, and she was leaving—with a lie. “There haven’t been any calls today. What’s going on?”

“It’s… it’s personal… I can’t explain.” She spun and started for the door but I beat her and blocked it with my wheelchair.

“Oh no you don’t! My turn. You’re not leaving until I find out what’s going on.” Her eyes flashed around, desperately looking for another way out, but there was none. “Forget it Maria,” I warned. “I have to know. I don’t know why, but I do.”

She stood stiffly, her hands clenched tightly into fists that hung down at her side. She seemed to want to turn away but I held her locked with my eyes. Finally she answered, the words exploding out. “Because I was driving that jeep that ran you off the road.” Having said it, she stared at me defiantly, daring me to react.

I backed away from the door, feeling light-headed as I considered her admission. I rolled over to the window and stared out over the bare winter trees and brown lawn below. The cold outside seemed to reach in and wrap me in a clammy embrace. Maria didn’t move behind me. I could hear her breathing; short, gasping little breaths, almost like she was crying.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” she said after a minute. “I took this job because I wanted to help you… I wanted to do something to make up for—”

“—killing Jenny and destroying my life?” I snapped.

“No! It wasn’t my… well, I…”

She stopped, confused, as I turned to face her. My face hurt from trying to keep it under control. For a minute, I couldn’t say anything, and I realized what the truth was.

“It wasn’t your fault.” It was the most difficult thing I had ever said or had to admit, but it was true. “And I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Suddenly she looked confused.

“I’ve known.”

“Known what?” Then her eyes widened. “You knew I was the driver?” She stepped towards me, her mouth a tight slash. “You’ve known all the time?” I nodded and suddenly her hand flashed towards me and my head rocked back from the force of her slap.

“Well, I had that coming.” My face burned and I tasted blood from where I had bitten myself. I worked my jaw to try to loosen it up.

Her face was flushed as she glared at me. “So you’ve been working my ass off to make me pay for it since you… how long have you known?”

“From the beginning,” I admitted. “At first, I wanted to make your life miserable. I knew it wasn’t really your fault, intellectually, but it didn’t matter. I wanted to see you suffer—”

“Did you?” She looked thoughtful, all at once. “No, you did. But I know how much you also blame yourself. Were you punishing yourself, looking for a witness to your suffering?” Maria had calmed down and she had perched herself on a chair in the corner. “I’m sorry I slapped you. Why did you hire me, if you knew I was the driver?”

Suddenly I wasn’t sure.

“We share a bond, you know.” Her eyes were suddenly gleaming, wet. “You lost your wife, and I lost my life.”

I rolled close, a voice inside screaming. She was hurting. I had never thought about how she must have felt all this time. I had been so focused on what I had lost that I had not thought about what she had been going through. I rolled as close as I could, my knee touching hers. I could feel it, a little.

“Maria. Please, don’t cry. I don’t want to hurt you.” I felt my own eyes burn. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say at first, but I had to try. “You’re not at fault. Not you, and not me. It was an accident.” It was difficult. But I had to admit it. “Please! We both have to stop punishing ourselves. You talk about my feeling guilty and wallowing in self-pity, but what do you call what you’ve been doing, staying here and getting abused by me?” I took a deep breath. “I need your help with something. I’m going to call Renkvist and schedule an appointment. Would you come with me? I could really use your support. With his help, I may be able to start a new life. I think you need to do the same. Would you come with me? Please?”