Fix

FOUR WALLS OF MY BEDROOM ARE SOMEPLACE. Although where and when seem beside the point. I linger, nested in my bed between my collages. Listening to cars. Listening to birds. Listening to Lidia.
“So,” she says, leaning back in my desk chair. “You outta bed yet?”
She notices my Roxy bottle still in my hand and reaches for it. I immediately drop my hand to my side.
“What is it?” she asks. “An antibiotic, or a vitamin to help your spine grow?”
I squeeze the plastic protectively.
“My spine isn’t growing,” I say, blinking lazily over at her. “It’s hardening.” I can’t believe I’m speaking to her about the surgery. Finally.
“How do you bend after it hardens?” she asks.
“Well, I guess I don’t. Or at least not my spine anymore. But they had to glue it together to keep it straight.”
“How does the glue dry if it’s inside you?”
“It’s not really glue. It’s the bone from my ribs Dr. Sowah sawed off because they were crushing my heart and lungs. He ground up my rib bones, took out the disks in my spine, and stuck the bony paste in there. Then he attached it all to a couple of long bars with screws as big as my thumb and bolted this whole contraption to a round metal plate attached near my hips.” Talking to her about this feels… amazing. Like taking a long hot shower, something I wouldn’t be allowed to do for almost four more weeks.
The pain stirs.
“That’s gross, Eve,” she says. “Are there pictures?”
“There are X-rays somewhere.” I open my bottle.
Lidia jumps out of the chair to help me sit up.
“No, don’t. It hurts.”
“How long do you have to wear this one?” she asks, gesturing to my spinal brace. “It’s a lot bigger than your last one.”
I shrug like I don’t know. But I do know. Sowah said I needed to wear the hard-plastic shell wrapping me from clavicle to hips for four to six months. I haven’t figured out whether the time is too short or too long, and so I keep the estimate to myself.
I roll onto my side, wincing.
Lidia moves to grab the water glass on my bedside table.
“Don’t bother. I’ve swallowed it already.”
She sighs, shaking her head and looking at me.
My eyes start to water again. I can’t stop them.
“Lidia,” I whisper.
“Your hair is really greasy,” she says, frowning. Ignoring my plea… ignoring the past few horrible weeks.
“I haven’t washed it since before the surgery,” I confess.
“That was like a month ago,” she shrieks in horror.
“Yup,” I say, giving her a sleepy smile.
“What about a shower?”
“Nope.”
She grimaces and then laughs.
I’m happy to have grossed her out, happy to make her laugh. It’s just like it always was.
I settle onto my pillow. I like this part, where I can feel the Roxy in there, battling. I’m panting. And wet with sweat. Though I know soon… very soon… the drug will win.
“How about I get a pot of warm soapy water and wash your hair?”
“It will hurt.” But then I give a little snort through my nose because the Roxy is winning, and I know that it won’t hurt. Nothing will hurt.
“I’ll be careful,” she says. “Afterward I’ll dry it, and maybe braid it so it doesn’t look so messy.”
She scooches her chair closer to my bed, chattering on about my hair. I close my eyes and listen, the sound
of her voice
opening inside me
like a beautiful flower in
one of those time-lapse videos.
She is here. With me.
Lidia.
And me.
Me and Lidia.

Me and Lidia
I am dreaming
of the place
where the forsythia grew
lush and green,
branches curving to
create an
entire world.
Our world.
Lidia and me.
Me and Lidia.
Under the forsythia.
Where we
dragged old rugs,
small tables,
cups,
plates,
and anything else no one
would miss.
Where we breathed
each other’s air
inside our prehistoric cave,
our hobbit hole,
our home.
Pretending to sleep.
Pretending to eat.
Really eating.
Really playing, checkers,
house,
spy.
In this world
we were the dappled shade, the
sunny yellow blooms, the
soft, brown dirt.
Guarded by the
bending branches from the
curious stares, the
fixed gazes, the
superficial smiles, and
so many trivial, rambling words
whipping round and
round, like wind over mountains,
eroding us.
Under the forsythia,
it was me and Lidia and
me and Lidia. Me and Lidia.
Me and Lidia. MeandLidiaMeandLidiaM
eandLi
dia.


Your Decision
LYING ON MY BACK ON THE LIVING ROOM FLOOR, I ATTEMPT to lift my foot from the yoga mat to meet Nancy’s hand for the millionth time. My toes hover a few inches below her fingers and then drop to the mat.
Who knew physical therapists came to your home, ripped you from bed, and forced you to exercise?
I do.
Now.
“Come on, Eve. Give me one more.”
I close my eyes and groan as I lift my foot an inch. It’s as much as I can do. It’s as much as I want to do. Nancy frowns. I know this even though my eyes are closed. In the quiet moment before she speaks, I actually consider the chance that she may have magically disappeared as per my telescope.
“All right,” she says, crushing my fragile hope. The woman’s from Medford, not Minnesota. “Let’s get you up.”
This hour goes on forever.
Rolling to my side, I bring in my knees and arms the way Nancy taught me, like a baby curling up in a crib, and then climb to all fours. She places my walker in front of me, standing behind it for support. I use it to climb to my feet.
Once I’m up, she looks me over. She does not approve.
“Have you been eating?”
“Yes.”
I have not been eating.
“Taking off your brace once a day?”
“Yes.”
I’ve never even considered removing it.
“I know you can’t shower yet, Eve,” she says, glancing at my grease-matted hair, “but spraying in a bit of dry shampoo, changing into clean pajamas, washing your face. Small efforts at self-care. These are important. Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately?”
The question stings. No. No, I have not. I have not looked at myself in a mirror. And I don’t plan to.
“I mean, gosh, look at your toenails.”
Out of instinct, I look down at my toenails. The word scuzzy comes to mind.
“But I can’t reach