Life Happens Next by Terry Trueman Read Free Book Online Page B

at my beautiful chrome ride; sometimes the fur on his neck puffs up and he lets out a low growl. I wish I could explain to him, “Hey Rusty, I don’t like this wheelchair any more than you do.”
    Actually, I’m still scared of Rusty. Even though he’s average size—I heard Cindy say fifty-five pounds—he’s so strong and powerful. If he wanted to hurt me, he could do it easily. So far he hasn’t mistaken my leg as part of the evil enemy wheelchair—so far.

15
    D ebi came home from “schoo” yesterday and announced to Mom, “I no friends with B-B-B-Barbara no more.”
    Mom said, “Did something happen at school today?”
    â€œYeth,” Debi answered.
    Mom asked, “Did you and Barbara quarrel?”
    â€œNo me,” Debi answered, “J-J-J-Janeth.”
    â€œJanet and Barbara quarreled?”
    â€œYeth … no quarry … hit and bite.”
    Mom asked, “But you didn’t hit or get involved?”
    â€œNo tanks,” Debi answered.
    Mom said, “Well that’s good, sweetie. You just be nice to everyone and they’ll be nice to you, right?”
    â€œYeth,” Debi answered, but I’m not sure she really accepted Mom’s logic. Truthfully, I’m never sure how much Debi gets or doesn’t get out of any conversation.
    Thinking about Debi, I wonder about her seeing her two classmates hit and bite each other. No matter what advice Mom gives her, Debi is pretty much defenseless. If you think about that word, it’s pretty heavy. Defenseless . It never means “less defense.” It means no defense. When a person is defenseless, it means that he can’t defend himself at all, right?
    Sometimes I get scared that I’m defenseless, too. Debi is slow, but at least she can run away or yell or hit back if someone is bothering her. When you look at me, you’d think I am completely defenseless. And technically my only defenses are my central nervous system, the automatic part of my brain—the kind of defenses no one ever thinks about. If I never blinked, my eyes would quickly dry out and I’d become blind, but my eyes blink when they need to; if something like a fly or a gnat gets near them, my eyelids do their job. I also breathe, sleep, awaken, swallow, wiggle, shift positions, stretch, yawn, laugh, excrete, and dream. In these supersimple ways, my body takes care of itself. Also, it’s not like I’m paralyzed; I feel sensations of touch like pain and pleasure and I react to these feelings. When the doctor hits my knee with his little rubber hammer, my lower leg kicks. If you grab me by my arm and squeeze too tight, I’ll cry out. I can’t will my body to do what I say, but my body wills me to do what it says.
    We consider old people and babies as being defenseless, but if you think about it, most everyone in the world can easily become defenseless. Swim in the ocean and get eaten by a great white shark. Jump from an airplane 150 times for fun, and on the 151st jump, your parachute and your backup chute both fail. While walking into your house from the mailbox on a cloudy day, you get struck by a bolt of lightning. If you think of it that way, we’re all always at risk at some time or another. And either by chance or bad luck or even by just living long enough to get old and weak, every one of us ends up defenseless. It just so happens I’m like this all the time.
    As I sit in the family room by my window, my head happens to shift and Rusty comes into focus. He’s lying on the floor in what has become the regular spot for him, the passage between the family room and the kitchen, where Mom is cleaning up. I see Debi in the background, out of focus, waiting for her bus. Paul and Cindy have already taken off for school.
    Rusty stares at me and I look back at him. He doesn’t growl now, but he doesn’t blink or look away either. We gaze straight into each