This 28th, then, comes from the phrase for Sept. 1, "sacred ground."
I stared at the door Deena had just slammed behind herself
and couldn't help but feel that I'd just failed some test or
other, that I should just grab my wheel rims and roll myself
right back through the kitchen and the garage and out of her
life.
"Ah," came a voice behind me, and I slewed around to see
her father standing there, drying his hands with a dishtowel.
"I'm guessing you asked something about the museum."
A glance sideways showed me the little rack, various things
that would qualify as maybe either tchotchkes or keepsakes
decorating its shelves. "I did," was all I said because I
really didn't want to think about the way I'd probably insulted
her in every possible way.
"Deena's past," her father said, and I looked back at him,
younger than the picture that flashed so horribly through my own
thoughts at the mention of the word 'father.' "Part of it's
sacred ground, and the rest of it's a minefield. Either way,
it's usually best not to go walking around in it."
And as much as I tried biting my lip, I couldn't keep from
saying, "But you've got to."
I expected him to throw me out right then and there, but he
just nodded, his hands still working the dishtowel though I was
pretty sure they were dry by now. "Deena needs to decide
that, though. I've tried to force the issue, but all I get is
the same." He jerked a thumb at the closed door. "I'm hoping
the therapists at your place, that they can get her to come
around, can get her to see..." His voice trailed off.
"They're good," I told him. Not that I knew. I mean, I
worked with the physical therapists every day because my father
paid them to do what they could for me. But every day, a little
bit more of me went dead--
Which is an exaggeration, actually. I mean, it's not like
I could feel it, not like when I'd sleep wrong and wake
up with my arm twisted underneath me and sit up and it would
flop forward like a slab of cold, dead meat only to slowly start
pin-prickling its way back to life, the teeth-gritting pain of
circulation returning. It wasn't like that.
My legs are just weight, not cold and not even alive enough
to feel dead. It's like being a sea lion in the middle of the
desert: maybe the way you're built is great for swimming around
in the water, but, well, there isn't any water....
So even though what the physical therapists did for me was
pretty much useless and even though I'd never dealt with the
whole mental therapy part of Chrysalis House--I really didn't
relish trying to explain to them the long conversations I had
with cats and dogs and squirrels and crows and whatnot--I still
gave them my highest recommendation: "As much as I'm still in
one piece, it's because of the folks at Chrysalis House."
El Brujo flicked her ears in my lap. "You consider me in
that number, I take it?"
"Of course," I said, knowing Deena's father wouldn't hear.
"You're in charge of the ward, after all."
When I stroked my hand over her, I could feel her purring.
"Carry on, then," she said.
I almost had to imagine throwing a big switch in my head to
click back into human language mode. "I'm so very, very sorry,
sir, about getting Deena mad."
He nodded, tossed the dishtowel to hang over one shoulder,
stepped forward, and knocked solidly on Deena's bedroom door.
"It's time to go, honey."
Ready for her to storm out, to demand I remove myself, to
refuse to attend her session or to ever have anything to do with
me again, I cringed back in my chair. But the door opened
slowly, quietly, gently, Deena standing there, her eyes red-
rimmed and shimmering, such sadness on her thin face, I wanted
to throw myself in front of a bus, wheel out into the path of
one of the many SUVs that filled the neighborhood. But saying,
"I'm sorry," was all I could manage to do.
"Don't be," she said shortly, and her voice sounded hard
and flat and jagged like a chunk of sidewalk cracked and forced
out of place by big buried tree roots. "I hafta learn...hafta
learn to talk about it normally." She rubbed her wrists, pulled
her sleeves further down to cover more of the needle marks.
"I'm sorry I shouted."
"Don't be." And these words, I wanted to say.
"It's the only way sometimes."
She blinked, actually focused on me for the first time
since coming back out. "You shout, Gus?"
I stroked El Brujo some more. "I've got a way to do it
that no one can hear."
El Brujo flicked her ears again. "No one human, you
mean, August."
"Yeah." I found the spot behind her right ear that made
her melt. "But you're a professional."
Next, then, as one might imagine, comes 29.
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