Photo by Scott Rodgerson on Unsplash
This is the last place I should be. I know better.
The thrumming pulse of the bar’s music reverberates in my ears and crawls along my skin. If I concentrate hard enough, I can still hear Isaac’s robust laughter. The day I rolled across the stage in my power wheelchair at my college graduation, I caught a glimpse of his pride-filled eyes and a radiant smile, revealing a row of brilliant white teeth.
He never called me inspirational or brave. He never spoke about me with pity tinged in his steady, unwavering tone. Always respect.
My older brother loved me.
But our bond and his compassion for others wasn’t enough.
Alcohol took hold of him one day and never let him go.
The unrelenting grasp of his addiction proved too irresistible; the pungent fumes on his breath curled like tendrils of air exhaled on a frosty winter night. When he was under its noxious influence, he became someone else entirely.
Thoughts of Isaac drift from my mind as thoughts of Declan emerge. Toned with a freshly shaven jawline, crystalline blue eyes, and oil-slicked black hair, Declan was Isaac’s best friend. Not to mention the smile that creases Declan’s lips, sometimes enticing; other times frustrating.
He hadn’t even come to Isaac’s funeral. Too caught up in his own bullshit.
I want to hate him with every fiber of my being. So why do I need him right now?
I pull out my phone, dialing Declan’s number and press it to my ear, but I can’t hear anything over the blaring music from the bar’s speakers. Sighing, I hang up and slip the phone back into my purse.
“Can I buy you a drink?” I turn my attention to the man who’d taken the seat to the left of me. The ruffled mop of tangled hair on top of his head and greasy skin isn’t what puts me on edge. It’s the way his inquisitive brown eyes are giving me the once over, marking me with his steely gaze. “I couldn’t help but notice—”
“I’m good with my club soda, but thanks anyway.” My head throbs from the music’s augmenting din. I need to get away.
I finish my drink in a few gulps. My power chair whirs to life and I take off in the direction of the bathroom.
I can still feel his watchful gaze trained on me. But I ignore him. Until he has me cornered.
“Hey, let me through,” I say, trying to move around him, but I can’t escape.
“Why should I?” He leans towards me and into my personal space, grabbing both of my arms with one large hand and holds them together above my head. Ripe fumes of his breath invade my nostrils and almost make me gag. “Won’t you let me have a little fun?”
“STOP! Please… please stop! Somebody help me!”
“Music’s too loud. I’m afraid no one can hear you, sweetheart.”
His slimy fingers brush against my cheek and slide down my neck; the uncomfortable thickness of his erection throbbing against my knees as he leans against me.
“GET AWAY FROM HER!” A familiar voice roars above the cacophony of the pulsating music and, suddenly, a giant weight is ripped away from my body.
Declan!
Sirens blaring in the distance loom closer. Paramedics examine me, shining a bright light in my eyes and ask me a myriad of questions.
I’m admitted to the hospital for overnight observation, and moments after the IV slips into the vein of my arm, I tumble into a peaceful oblivion.
The following day, after Declan reassures the doctor and head nurse he’ll watch over me for the coming week, we’re back at his apartment. He brings my wheelchair charger from my place to his and plugs it in every night once I safely transfer to the couch.
Cerebral palsy makes my body spastic with an unforgiving tautness, especially in my legs, but it affects other parts of my body, too. The muscles in my back caused my spine to curve, which eventually caused scoliosis when I was a young child. When I graduated from high school, I had rods placed in my spine to stop the worsening of the curvature since scoliosis seems to have a mind of its own and was already starting to impact my internal organs.
I sit on the couch, staring listlessly into the air. Staring at nothing.
“Maya?” I startle when I hear Declan say my name. I feel like the frayed end of a livewire. Hypervigilant and anxious. He kneels in front of me. “Is there anything that you need?”
My brown eyes search his blue ones, but I don’t speak for a long time.
The question I want to ask him on the edge of my tongue. The yearning for an answer on my chapped lips.
“How did you know?” I finally ask. “H-how did you know to come for me? How did you know I was there?”
“You called me, but you didn’t leave a message,” Declan replies. “Something twisted in my gut. Didn’t feel right. It was your brother’s favorite bar, wasn’t it? He used to go there all the time. I thought maybe you wanted to feel close to him in some way.”
“If you hadn’t come when you did…”
“Maya…”
My hands grab fistfuls of his shirt. Unable to stop myself from crying any longer, I lean into him and sob uncontrollably.
He whispers words of consolation against my skin and into my brunette curls, his breath warm and tone reassuring, but I can’t decipher any meaning. I am too lost. The maelstrom of tears and pain too overwhelming. My tears stain his shirt with the agony of grief.
Right now, I need this.
I need him.
I pull back, fistfuls of his flannel shirt still bunched in my palms and stare long and hard at him through my watery gaze.
Before he can offer me any more comfort, I surge forward and press my lips to his. Kissing Declan is so different than kissing my ex-girlfriend or anyone else I’ve kissed before. I’m surprised when he kisses me back with equal fervor. His mouth tastes like cinnamon and he smells like peppermint aftershave and the faint lingering of musky cologne. I want to savor the flavor of him, revel in this feeling as my mouth explores his.
But he pulls away too quickly, his sudden intake of breath shattering the moment between us. His lips are swollen with desire and his eyes are wide.
“We can’t do this, Maya.”
My hands unclench, releasing his shirt. I feel restless, angry, tired.
“I just… I need—”
“What you need is rest. Time to heal.” He stands abruptly. “Go to sleep, Maya.”
He can’t even look at me before he flicks off the light and leaves me alone in the darkness.
I lift my legs onto the couch and make myself comfortable, pulling a worn blanket up to my shoulders.
I don’t think about the kiss or its weighted implications. How the kiss means everything or means nothing at all.
The irresistible pull of sleep drags me under, oblivious to the deep cavity below of how far I’ve already fallen.
We don’t speak of the kiss from that night. In fact, now we hardly speak to each other at all. Only when necessary.
Once I’m able to return to my apartment, I don’t see or speak to him for another two weeks.
Until we cross paths again one afternoon at my favorite coffee shop. I know it’s his favorite, too.
After I order my vanilla latte, I sit beside him. I’m a little surprised when he doesn’t get up to leave.
“So…” I begin, tracing my finger along the rim of my cup. “You haven’t called or texted in awhile.”
He doesn’t meet my piercing stare, taking a sip from his own coffee. A cappuccino with a dollop of whipped cream that he licks from his lips. “Neither have you.”
I’m lost in the tangle of my own thoughts as we share the space of companionable silence.
Somehow, I know we’re never going to talk about the kiss. At least not yet.
“So, where do we go from here?” I ask. “I mean, where does this leave us?”
When his eyes finally meet mine, they look darker, filled with a deep sorrow. Regret.
“I don’t know.”
The next time we kiss, we’re both a little too far gone. Alcohol courses through both of us, getting us just drunk enough to loosen our inhibitions.
We’re back at my apartment and a little too buzzed from the bottle of wine we shared between us earlier.
He kisses me first this time and I can taste the wine and marinated steak he ate for dinner on his tongue. One of his hands cups my cheek while his other hand weaves through my hair. I moan longingly into his kiss and when he pulls away, I fight the urge to chase his lips.
“Maya, are you sure?” he asks, voice wavering. “Maybe—”
I cut him off with another passionate kiss.
“My bed. Now.”
I tug at his hand, urging him toward my bedroom. I enter the bedroom first and he follows behind me. I park my wheelchair next to my bed.
“Now, where were we?” he asks, leaning down and capturing my lips. I wrap my arms around his neck as we continue to kiss, breaking momentarily when I tell him how to lift me out of my wheelchair. With one arm around my back and one arm under my legs, he lifts me effortlessly into his arms and gently lays me on the bed.
Eventually, our clothes end up in a discarded heap on the floor next to my bed as we take time exploring each other’s bodies.
This is the most content I’ve felt since my brother died, and I don’t question anything this time.
The next morning, I wake, and an unmistakable shiver runs through me. The bed is empty and cold, a hastily scribbled note left on my nightstand.
Running my finger over his handwritten scrawl, I sigh. I don’t know what is to come next for us, two broken souls aching for a connection, a release from the agony of grief.
Push, pull. Tug, release. The cycle continues.
There isn’t usually alcohol involved anymore, only the insatiable attraction of two people mourning a shared loss and finding solace in each other.
Sometimes I end up in his bed after a moderately priced dinner and a stroll by the harbor where he wraps his leather jacket around my shoulders.
Sometimes he ends up in mine.
The two of us can’t seem to stay away from each other.
Push, pull. Tug, release. The cycle continues.
“May his memory be a blessing.”
The smooth stone in my hand feels cool on the surface of my palm as I place it atop the headstone. I trace the engraved letters with the tip of my finger, struggling to breathe. I don’t allow myself to cry.
Beloved brother, son, friend, the headstone reads. I suppress the bubble of laughter from bursting inside of me; the simple words remain meaningless, frivolous drivel etched into a stone. Nothing more.
“May his memory be a blessing.” The Rabbi’s words echo around me once more, heavy and full.
Exactly one year has passed since Isaac’s death.
I close my eyes. My mind reels at the memory of that tragic day when fate sealed my brother’s future with an untimely end.
When I open my eyes, I realize something. I’m ready to speak. I don’t care who else might be listening. I need to talk.
“Hey.” I try my best to keep my voice steady. One hand curls around the joystick of my power wheelchair as the other hand rests on my lap. Normally, I would clasp my hands together, but they’re shaking so hard I want to keep them apart. I wait until my breathing calms, a steady rhythm against the ache of my beating heart. “So, it’s been a year. It’s been a whole fucking year, Isaac, and I… I’m lost. I’m lost without you. Sounds ridiculous, right?” A dry laugh escapes my throat. “I don’t even know why I came here. You wouldn’t… You wouldn’t be proud of the person I’ve become.”
“And what kind of person have you become?” Leaves crunch underfoot, the sharp edges to a familiar voice approaching on my right side.
“What are you doing here, Declan?” I ask, irritation marring my grief as my gaze meets his.
“I came to pay my respects.”
I snort. “Do you even know the meaning of the word?”
Declan shifts his weight. The sun melts below the horizon before he answers. “Thought you might need a friend.”
“Is that what we are?”
“Maya,” he says, voice warmer now. “It’s okay to grieve, you know. Grief affects everyone differently and that’s okay.”
“Am I not grieving?”
“You’re self-destructing. Letting his death consume you by destroying yourself. You’re angry.”
My chest constricts. “What would you know about that?”
“Honestly? I don’t think he’d be very happy with me either.”
I shiver as goosebumps prickle my skin and I’m two seconds away from asking Declan for his black leather jacket, remembering all the times this past year when he’s wrapped it around my shoulders. The fabric is irrepressibly warm.
“I think we should stop doing this,” he tells me, breaking the silence that had settled between us.
My brow furrows and I cast a glance in his direction. “This?”
“Us,” he clarifies. “Whatever we have. Whatever this is. It ends here.”
“At Isaac’s grave?” I can’t hold back the tremor in my voice.
“At Isaac’s grave,” he confirms.
“You didn’t even show your face at his funeral,” I snarl, unable to hold back the trembling. The anger.
“I couldn’t. I just couldn’t, okay? I’m not good with… with death and all that shit.”
My left hand clenches uncomfortably as I use my right to maneuver the joystick on my wheelchair, turning to face him. “Then that makes us two fucking peas in a pod, Declan.”
“But I can’t do this anymore. I’m moving to another state to live with my cousin. I… I need to get away.”
From you.
He doesn’t say it, but the unspoken words linger in the air between us.
He needs to get away from this. From everything surrounding Isaac’s death.
“…When?” The word feels like molasses on my tongue.
“A few days.”
“You didn’t come here to pay your respects,” I murmur, my gaze lingering over the words on Isaac’s grave before looking at Declan again. “You came here to say goodbye.”
He gives me a barely perceptible nod, eyes tracing the contours of my face.
My mind reels again, recalling every memory that I can. Everything that happened between us this past year.
“Goodbye, Maya.”
I don’t look at him when he walks away.
Lara Ameen is a screenwriter, fiction writer, disability activist, and PhD student in Education with a Disability Studies emphasis at Chapman University. She received an MFA in Screenwriting from California State University, Northridge. Her short fiction has been published in Prismatica Magazine, Disabled Voices Anthology, and Flash Fiction Magazine.