Fix

whisper. “She’s here. Lidia.”
“It’s the drugs, baby,” Martin tells me. “No one’s here.”

Red Rover, Red Rover
When I was six years old, I could
not imagine being anything but
strong and fast and tough.
I thought as much about my spine
twisting deep inside me
as I did about the world’s economy
or my mother’s day at work—which meant
not at all.
I wanted to play.
I always wanted to play.
And couldn’t believe my luck
that sunny afternoon
when a game of red rover
began around me.
Hand slapped into
hand slapped into
hand. Forming
a human chain. A chain
I wasn’t part of.
Turning every which
way, desperate
for entry—there she stood
reaching out with an arm
that did not end
in a hand.
Not knowing what to do
I did nothing.
But she knew.
“Take it,”
she said.
I took it.
Clutching the arm where it ended,
a little way up from where a wrist
would be.
Our line began to chant.
Red rover, red rover,
send Justin over.
Across the field,
a kid in stiff new jeans
and a Red Sox T-shirt
broke from the line
and started running toward us.
Fast.
Toward us.
Me and the girl.
Me and Lidia.
“Hold on,” she screamed.
And I did.


Please, No
“HOLD ON, DARLIN’, I’M ABOUT TO REMOVE YOUR CATHETER,” Martin says. “It’s time to get out of that bed.”
I don’t bother opening my eyes.
“You’re gonna have to move sooner or later, little Evie.”
I feel a dry sting from deep behind my belly button all the way down to my knees.
The sting fades.
I fade with it.
I’m never moving.
But they come.
The physical terrorists.
Talking. Touching. Positioning.
Please. Please, no. It hurts. Please.
Moving my blankets, my gown, my limbs.
No. Please, no. I can’t. Stop.
They don’t stop. They sit my body up. And then they stand it up. While I scream so loud the sound comes out my eye sockets.
It’s like someone has stuck a metal rod straight up my ass, through my torso, and into my shoulder blades. Because they have.
As I choke on a thick mix of sweat and tears and snot, my head rolls about at the end of my neck, giving me a swirling view of ceiling, floor, curtains. The PTs mutter “Shhh” and “It’s okay,” standing on either side of me, holding me upright. Not that it’s a hard job—I haven’t eaten anything for almost two weeks and I’m pretty sure my hospital gown weighs more than I do.
My utter lack of compliance does nothing to convince them to return me to my bed so I try begging—saying the word please so many times it’s really just my lips quivering with fear.
They continue like they can’t hear me. The short woman saying “You can do this,” and the taller repeating “Yes, you can do this,” in an even louder voice over and over. It’s like I’m trapped in some strange torturous pep-talk echo chamber, and I can’t tell if these two are physical therapists or personal trainers.
Together, they drag me across the hospital room while I sob, and the old lady I share the room with shouts, “Jesus H. Christ, take me,” and “Holy Mother of God, shut her up,” in a cigarette-induced Southie rasp.
It isn’t even a ten-foot journey, but every muscle I need to take those steps has been sawed through and then stapled back together.
My mother walks in. Her face drops, and she quickly backs out the door. “I’ll come back when you’re done.”
What? No. Help!
But she’s gone.
The PTs cart me into the bathroom, position my hands on the bars on either side of the toilet, and hike up my gown. Immediately, I remove my hands to clutch at them, pleading through my tears for someone to do something to stop the pain.
Again they reposition my hands and attempt to lower me to the pot, but my gown falls down first. Up I come as they attempt to tie the gown out of my way.
“Just take the goddamn thing off,” I snap.
The tall PT gently removes my gown, and together, they lower my body onto the toilet, resting each of my arms on one of the bars. I beg them not to leave me like this. I can’t do it. I can’t stay here. It hurts too much. Everything hurts too much.
Staying true to their infuriating optimism, they leave me and pull the door closed half an inch—like I need privacy after having just been placed naked onto a toilet.
I cling to the bars, my head dangling from my neck, my rib cage and spine on fire. I’ve stopped crying, and the lingering panting and hiccups send shocks of pain from my knees to my eyes.
I sit.
And sit.
Nothing happens. It’s like the pee doesn’t know how to come out of me without a tube.
My physical therapy cheerleading squad keeps up their chanting outside the bathroom, which does nothing to help. Finally, the short PT comes back in and turns on the faucet. As she exits, she pulls the door almost completely closed, and I’m left staring at my reflection in a full-length mirror.
There was a time—called my entire fucking life—when I’d have done anything to see myself in a mirror with a Cobb angle of nineteen degrees, but now all I see are staples.
Large staples.
Large, metal staples.
Many, many large, metal staples. A gleaming railroad track sunk deep into my pale white skin and crisscrossing a thick red slice of open wound traveling from under my armpit, down past my belly button, and around my hip.
What did they do to me? What did they do?
Forgetting I can’t, I jump up and then fall back onto the toilet, hitting the seat hard. The pain is so horrible that I can do nothing but cling to the bars while blood pounds in my temples.
One of the PTs calls my name.
I can’t answer. I’m sliding. Sliding from the toilet. Sliding toward the floor, where my staples will catch on the seat and rip me open. I’m going to be ripped open and I’m going to hurt worse than I do