Chương 4
One comment showed a freeze-frame of Lily standing and asked, If she can do this, why is she in the chair?
Another said, Disability scam exposed at rich people gala.
A third had found an old photograph from when Lily was eleven, before the weakness, standing on a dock in Maine with wet hair and a Popsicle.
The caption beneath it read: SHE COULD ALWAYS WALK.
Lily stopped eating.
Marcus put a mug of coffee down too hard.
“Give me the phone.”
“No.”
“You’re reading garbage.”
“I know.”
“Then stop.”
“Do you stop reading something because it’s about you?”
“Yes.”
She looked at him.
He sighed.
“No. Fine. I don’t.”
A small victory.
It felt terrible.
The doorbell rang.
Marcus moved instantly.
Lily heard his shoes cross the front hall, the lock turn, and his voice become colder.
“No.”
A woman answered.
“I’m not asking for an interview.”
“You’re on my front step.”
“I’m dropping off a card.”
“Mail exists.”
Lily closed her eyes.
By the time Marcus returned, he had a business card in one hand and the look of someone considering whether arson had legal advantages.
“Reporter?”
“Local news.”
“Can I see?”
“No.”
She raised one eyebrow.
Marcus handed it over.
Another victory.
Still terrible.
At eleven fifteen, Dr. Reena Shah examined Lily in a rehabilitation clinic downtown.
She tested strength, reflexes, balance, sensation, fatigue, and the things that had been tested so many times Lily could anticipate the next instruction by the angle of the doctor’s hand.
Push against me.
Don’t let me move you.
Can you feel this?
What about here?
Any pain?
Dizziness?
Change in bladder function?
Change in sensation?
The answers were mostly the same as they had been the week before.
Lily’s left quadriceps tested slightly stronger than her previous visit.
Dr. Shah refused to attach a miracle to one number.
“One stand doesn’t tell me your condition has suddenly changed,” she said.
Marcus sat forward.
“But she stood.”
“I’m not disputing that.”
“She hasn’t done that independently in two years.”
“With hand support.”
“With a fifteen-year-old boy.”
Dr. Shah looked at Lily.
“Was he lifting you?”
“No.”
“Pulling?”
“No.”
“Did you feel like your right arm was taking most of your weight?”
“At first.”
“And then?”
Lily tried to describe it.
The difficulty was that standing had happened faster than memory.
“I pushed. My legs caught me.”
“For how long?”
“Three seconds.”
“Maybe four,” Marcus said.
Lily looked at him.
He stared at the floor.
Dr. Shah rolled her stool closer.
“Do you want to try again today?”
Marcus said, “No.”
Lily said, “Yes.”
Dr. Shah’s eyes moved between them.
Then she addressed Lily.
“We can try under controlled conditions. Parallel bars, therapist present. Or we can not try. There’s no prize for doing it today.”
Lily’s stomach tightened.
The certainty from the night before was gone.
In its place sat the familiar room.
Rubber flooring.
Parallel bars.
A mirror she had hated for almost two years.
Her father watching.
People measuring.
People recording.
People asking what the movement meant.
“No,” she said.
Marcus exhaled.
Lily noticed.
That hurt more than if he had argued.
Dr. Shah simply nodded.
“Okay.”
Marcus frowned.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Aren’t you going to encourage her?”
“I just did.”
He looked confused.
Dr. Shah turned back to Lily.
“You’re allowed to want something yesterday and not want it today.”
Lily looked down at her hands.
“Everybody thinks I can walk now.”
“Everybody is wrong.”
Marcus shifted.
Dr. Shah continued.
“Standing for several seconds is standing. It is not walking. It does not tell us what your endurance is, what your balance is, what happens on a second attempt, or whether you can repeat it safely.”
“What if I can?”
“Then we learn something.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then we learn something.”
Lily almost smiled.
“That sounds like a doctor answer.”
“It is an extremely expensive doctor answer.”
Marcus made a noise that might have been a laugh.
On the drive home, he did not mention the internet.
Lily watched gray slush gather along Sixth Avenue.
At a red light, Marcus said, “You scared me last night.”
She kept looking out the window.
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
“Then tell me.”
The light changed.
He drove half a block before answering.
“When your chair rolled, I thought I was watching you get hurt before I could reach you.”
“That part wasn’t my choice.”
“I know.”
“And standing was.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“You hated that part too.”
“I did not hate it.”
“You told me to stop.”
“I was afraid.”
“You’re always afraid.”
He glanced at her.
“That’s because I have had reasons.”
Lily turned back to the window.
People hurried through the cold with their heads down.
A man stood under an awning eating something from a paper bag while snowmelt dripped behind him. The sight was so ordinary she wanted to trade lives with him for five minutes.
Marcus spoke again.
“The first night in the hospital, when your legs gave out, you were crying because you had left your math homework at home.”
“I was twelve.”
“You kept asking me to email your teacher.”
“I had a test.”
“You couldn’t sit up without help.”
“I was still going to fail fractions.”
“You had an A.”
“That is not the point.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
Then it disappeared.
“You were terrified,” he said.
“So were you.”
“Yes.”
“I got less terrified.”
Marcus did not answer.
That was the problem.
Her father had not.
By noon, Bright Futures Mobility Foundation had released a statement asking people to respect Lily Carter’s privacy and warning against speculation about her health.
At twelve eighteen, the foundation reposted an edited version of the gala clip.
Lily found out because Noah texted her.
He had gotten her number from the seating list, which he acknowledged was “somewhere between resourceful and probably a policy violation.”
His message contained a link and three words.
May you like
I’m really sorry.
The foundation’s post had music under it.
