Before the End, After the Beginning Read online

  good shower, mr sanchez?

  great shower, i say.

  thank you.

  he is drying me. it feels good. i am grateful.

  i sit back into the safe wheelchair and he gets me a tshirt and clean pair of gym shorts. i dont want underwear, so i can pee quickly. he pushes me to my bed home. he pulls the sheet over me and it is comforting. i am clean. i am back to what i know. thank you, i say to scott.

  least i know i can stand, i tell my son. next stop, up and down from the toilet. and then flushing by myself.

  itll take some time, dad. you know that.

  no rush. its all good exercise too.

  were watching basketball playoffs. he likes them. i really like it that my son and daughter visit me and sit here.

  whos winning? asks jannette. she doesnt even look up at the tv when she says that bursting in. shes come in to take my blood pressure and give me my evening cup of pills.

  the girl across the hall, i say. shes got a no salary cap team. the girl across the hall, who cant be more than thirty, has so many visitors all the time i think they had to rent chairs. she had a stroke too, same every symptom as me.

  shes popular, says jannette. she got lots of family.

  my bp is still high.

  whatre you doing in here, mr sanchez?

  i think its the pills you people give me to keep my people down.

  jannette laughs. we trying to keep you here cause you so pretty.

  aside from the young one across the hall, how many victims arent mexican or black?

  mr sanchez, you a nutcase.

  see? im right, arent i? its an experiment being conducted.

  you know you are a wrong man, mr sanchez, you always messing. but i am here for you, so you need something, you just buzz.

  what i notice, i tell my son, is that all the help is black or brown until its like from two in the morning to six. those are the crazy people hours.

  whatre you talking about? asks my son.

  when they come in at three or four, and you can barely see them, its these deranged, sleep deprived white people out to get even. actually, those visits at those hours are harsh and blurry and 100 percent unfriendly. i dont know for sure what theyre for.

  well, first of all, those sound like the worst jobs, so there goes your conspiracy. second, they must have something to do with your health. . . .

  they wake me up so ill be tired all day like they are. either become like them or die from fear. this one guy just turns on a light when he comes in and starts talking like im the weird sleeping man in the dark. one night, reacting like a human, i cry out, whyd you turn on the light? he gets mad, you know, says its so he can see. now i know he turns on the brightest one to torment me and teach me whos boss. if i werent a cripple in bed helpless, id bust the fucker in his face.

  i can ask about that, about you not getting to sleep.

  youll probably piss them off more and theyll do more cruel shit to me. get to me when im finally having a sweet dream.

  and third, says my son, i think over half to three fourths of the staff i myself see here is anglo. and the patients too.

  and almost all of the therapists too, i say. my point therefore proven, that they rule the world, even if they dont have any players of importance on any playoff team.

  pau gasol is on the lakers.

  spaniards and argentineans dont count. and you notice how they dont even bother to learn to pronounce his name right? like its ga-salt, which they insist is not healthy, even though theyre the ones who soak everything in it, not ga-sun, which is the one and only source of all our light and energy! hes a star on the team too, not just kobe, whose name they did learn, as strange, and two syllables, as it is. always treating our heritage like its common and unimportant, even when its a pinche spaniard.

  youd think speech therapyd be about speech. half my body went dead. that means half my face too. kristen, my therapist, taught me that even half my tongue went too. it is what i learned from her, its the most complex muscle in the body. thats why i sound drunk when i talk. however, we dont seem to ever deal enough with my speech or numb face.

  kirsten, she corrects me again.

  maybe its because of the stroke i cant get that right, i say.

  nice try.

  at least i got cover for my drinking.

  i do think your focus might be affected.

  i cant tell if shes teasing or not. she really takes her tests seriously. like there are answers in them. she has a library of three-ring binders she looks through until she finds tests for my homework, though sometimes i have to take one or two right there in her office. she times things i do. i hate this. i hate this speech therapy. i think shes making it up, doing some project on her own. wheres the speech part? i feel like its sunday school with mormons. i do not believe. im not a mormon.

  excuse me? she says.

  i didnt say anything. or mean to.

  howd you know i was a mormon?

  i didnt. maybe you told me.

  no.

  in truth, i had no idea. i was just thinking to myself and that sentence came out in public.

  anyway, you need to put all the pills from the jars into the organizers.

  all these? there must be a dozen jars of pills.

  theyre all yours.

  no wonder i cant talk right.

  you have to be able to do this without getting confused.

  what?

  into each day. into the morning slot or afternoon or . . .

  i know what you meant.

  and you have to look at what each pill requires. if its twice a day or morning only . . .

  yeah yeah okay.

  you have to do it with your right hand.

  but i can barely use it. i cant feel anything with it.

  youll get used to it. we want you to do this when you get home.

  they arent pills. theyre colored beads and nuts and washers. i drop every one. then i dont drop every fifth one. i make it first try into the organizer slot only one in the five of the beads i do manage to get between my numbed fingers. not very good success odds.

  i miss a lot, i say.

  youll get better with practice. you have to be able to do this right.

  so important that i am using my almost worthless right hand. i would never try to pick up real pills . . . but its good. it takes up time. i hate speech therapy and this will take me days of practice.

  nancy insists on my being buckled up in my wheelchair to go to physical therapy. and she wont push me, unless were in a hurry. that is, unless she is. today shes in a hurry, and we have to go through an uphill hallway to the therapy room. i dont think shes a lesbian, though she has that short hair, ironed, tucked in shirt, fitted jeans, and never married to a man bark, and fire hydrant frame of . . . maybe its just her, who knows. shes nice to me, or means to be, when shes snapping. i like her like you do your hardass coach. even if i dont know her win-loss record.

  move your arm in. you want to lose those fingers?

  my right arm often hangs too limp and casual near the spoke wheels of the rolling chair.

  i tell you all the time. you want to learn when its too late?

  shes right. i pull my arm to my lap.

  now youve got it like you had a stroke and cant use it. put it on the armrest. it has to do what the other arm does.

  i obey and put it on the armrest. i understand her, shes right. when we get to the room, she makes me stand up with no hands. shes taught me and i try very soldierly to please her. i have to lean my body forward. apparently this is how i used to and everyone not in a wheelchair does it all the time.

  almost have it, she says.

  almost?

  youre still favoring the other side. lik
e its too weak.

  i want to suggest that it is, really, kind of weak, but i dont want to sound weak or make her mad.

  do it again, nancy says.

  what?

  stand up, then sit down.

  now seated on the edge of a padded table, i muscle my way up, i sit down. like its an exercise, which it is for me now, not just standing and sitting. i do this until she tells me to rest. up, back down. i feel sweat everywhere, im hot, im out of breath.

  you have to get more control, especially when you sit down. not just drop.

  i meant to get them all.

  the last ones were sloppy.

  oh. sorry.

  you got tired, she says.

  im afraid of agreeing or disagreeing.

  i do exercises on the padded table. stretches of the calves. then the quads. then i get on my stomach. i am supposed to lift my foot and calf ninety degrees, starting with the left. nothing, easy. when i try my right, its like nothing connects the two leg bones but kneecap. my calf flops on either side of my body. it doesnt hurt, theres no physical pain, but inside me, silently, it might be the worst indignity yet, so harsh i cant cry or rage. its as though i have been slugged very hard and the pain hasnt checked in.

  this is nothing ever. i cant do it?

  you have to work on it.

  work on it? you dont work on moving your leg.

  your hamstring. you have to.

  i am on my stomach. i have no strength where i never even thought of strength. the plastic of the mat against my face, the pressing on it is how far ive fallen. how messed up this body is. my body. my life. my past is past, is back then when i didnt know, when i never gave a thought to . . . this. how is it possible i am this way?

  you had a stroke.

  i know but i cant believe i cant pull my stupid leg up.

  you had a stroke.

  its not time to quit yet. nancy wants me to walk. i stand to the aluminum walker and take one step, then another. i have to move my right leg right. bend it, pick up my toe. pick up my toe. dont hyperextend. she grabs my knee. now go on. go. pick up my toe and put it out in front and dont do this. thats good. thats good. dont go so far back. dont try to go so fast. step. step. step. not like that. stop that. dont hyperextend. better. better.

  nancy buckles the seatbelt in my wheelchair because she thinks its unsafe to be unbuckled, even though i do it all the time. im too wiped out and whatever to talk. i am going to wheel myself in the chair because i dont want her to even if she is willing, which of course i am sure she isnt. i pretend to use my right hand to help push the wheel, like two sides of me are doing the job equally. i push as hard as i can but act like im not. i want to get to my room, and when i do, she says, see you tomorrow and i say the same, like i am looking forward to it and her.

  1, patty speaks chinese. 2, the elevator operator plays tennis. 3, teresa does not speak french. and so on. this one, i tell my son and daughter, is easy too. but you see how it is. heres another, which is worse, watch. i have to record the following in a checkbook ledger. 1, ace insurance company, $90, march 17, 1981, no. 19. 2, deposit, $200.53 on april 20, 1981. and so on, each a puzzle or test that is part of my speech therapy. least this one you could say gets me practicing my writing with my left hand. otherwise, i pretend i forget. if i say i forget, then i guess it seems like i have more speech problems with addition.

  just dont do them, my son says. im sure it cant matter.

  i have to see her almost everyday. i did those pills so long she thought something was wrong with that speech too. but if you do these for me, i wont look so bad, and my speech will be much better too.

  hello, says scott. hola. buenos noches? is that right?

  its perfect.

  just checking to see if everythings good.

  too good.

  good, thank you! just making sure.

  alls good.

  im finally leaving for the day.

  you work some long hours, scott.

  they never let me go. techs dont show, i get a double shift.

  get some rest.

  i wanted to tell you.

  appreciate it.

  thank you.

  thank you, scott.

  he is strange, my daughter says quietly as he leaves. very odd character.

  but you know, i say, i think hes harmless. hes here, doing this.

  are you okay, dad? asks my son. you almost sound soft.

  i do need that other test done. you guys can do that for me? i really dont want to. my brain fries. not how she thinks, or why she thinks, but in the me that evolved long before the incident. apparently thats a speech problem.

  i got it, daddy, says my daughter. its like that sudoku thats gotten so popular. only easier.

  i could do it if I didn’t hate to. i did them at first, a couple. just put it on some paper and ill write in the boxes.

  she really checks on this like its homework?

  you kidding? i swear shes going to detain me for an all-day speech camp for those of us with special speech trouble.

  im not getting soft on the place or any of them. its like this typing though. which i hate. i hate the mistakes i have to fix, the waste of time, the enthusiasm they drain. you dont see them because of me. i make them right. im better at it too because im doing it, as you see. i type with my one hand. ­really its more one finger on the wrong hand. im right-handed, and now i can only use the left. im not bothering with the shift key or the apostrophe. i fix the other mistakes, slow as that is, many as there are. even by staring right down at the keys, i type y for t often, for instance, or o for p. i make extra letters where they dont belong, or i forget letters or spaces. i could make caps. not easy, bt i could. and apostropke.s. see those mistakes? im noy fixing them to show my point. that last little sentence has only one letter y instead of t typo in it. when i started typing, there was one in every word. sometimes now i put my right hand on this keyboard too, even though it really isnt close to helping. the index finger cant feel the keys. the right hand, and its fingers, have like a thick glove on it. the glove fits my hand so organically that it looks exactly like my hand used to. you cant tell them apart. im not getting soft. i am not wanting to scream and fight as much though, punish the keyboard the way i used to. i fix the mistakes as though im responsible for them. there are less of them to fix. i learn patience. i come back to the keyboard when im not so tired or just not so mad at all, any, every. i hate it, i know i do, that is the truth, but I get better at this.

  im wiping the window clean with my right hand. its not really a window. its the wall in the ot room. im using a washcloth. its an exercise. i am upright for this. sometimes i sit and do something similar to this on an ironing board, where i also reach as high as i can.

  you think im going to get better?

  you already are, says deena.

  she, mostly, has been my occupational therapist for weeks. deena is korean. or her parents were. that is, all her grandparents were from there. she is always calm and slow-moving. i think it explains why she gains weight so easy. no metabolism. its what makes her seem like she knows more, has deeper insight, something like that. a buddha. i know its stupid. youd have to be here, youd have to meet her. even if she told me that her family has always been christian. presbyterian, she frowns, which, she says, is so lame. but she says the word lame so profoundly and frowns with great, calm buddha wisdom.

  i guess i am. id definitely outrun a slug, crush him if i had to. i think. but i mean my hand. you think itll get better?

  i dont know. we never know. its hard to predict. brain injuries . . .

  yeah, im always hearing that. i just want stats, not legal promises.

  i dont know any.

  seems like nobody does.

  ive only been doing this for a
few months.

  youre joking.

  no.

  but dont you . . .

  my typing is interrupted by erlinda, the custodian. she washes the floor in my room, dumps the wastebaskets, and cleans the shared bathroom. for six years. shes from morelia and the outskirts of mexico city last. she likes to talk to me because the only other person she gets to talk spanish to all day is the other janitor, beatriz, and thats only at lunch break. she wants to know what i think. she was in walmart yesterday, with her husband and two girls, who were excited because it was the youngests birthday. they were in line to pay. they were buying lots of things when she heard this woman in the line behind them complain. about them speaking spanish. so, she says, she told that woman in english that it was none of her business. that, see, she could talk in english. the lady started yelling at her, threatening her, and so she started yelling back at the woman. they just yelled because erlindas husband held her back. then the guards came and stood between.

  what was she yelling? i ask.

  i dont know. i was so mad. im not like that.

  of course.

  even now she is upset. was she wrong? it was her youngest daughters birthday, too, that was a lot of it.

  i really dont know what to say. im okay with erlinda, but do i know what this other rude lady was talking about, really? erlinda is slow. thats not because she speaks spanish and is mexican. its because she is slow. not lazy. she is here at six every day, and the rooms are mopped and picked up. still, i wouldnt want to be behind her in a line, and not at walmart. erlinda is nice. but i dont know why she asks me. only because theres no one else, besides beatriz, to tell?

  low-class people, i say. theyre everywhere, but especially at walmart. even though you save so much money there.

  what could i do? she asks me. she has stopped swabbing the floor. shes not even resting with the mop as a prop to lean against. she holds it steady. what should she have done?

  are you really asking me? do you really want me to answer?

  yes, she says. please.

  she says please. that makes it even harder. not because she is incapable of being so polite, but because she means it, wants my answer. if it were me, and i were her, with her family, which i dont even know about. please. sure, i sit in the wheelchair much of the time now. i go to the toilet with no help. i can sit and stand, hold myself to pee, clean myself. an hour ago i showered and didnt tell them. i felt like that was an accomplishment. like i was a big boy. i was proud and pleased with myself. she wants my opinion?