now, when he needs everything filled in … well, it’s like trying to make him love me more than he did. And that’s not right. I know I shouldn’t go overboard about my past because it’s not something we talked about much before his stroke. But I feel that at some point I’m either going to have to spell it out in detail, or I’m going to keep feeling guilty as hell about it.
“About a month after the stroke, Steve said something that really broke my heart. At first I felt angry, then I realized that, because of his difficulty communicating, he was unable to express all the qualifying baggage we sometimes hang on our statements. He could only say it bluntly. He said I should leave him. He said I should find someone else. After I got over the shock, I told him I couldn’t. I told him I had a mystery to solve and that I wouldn’t stop until I’d solved it. I told him I had to solve the mystery of who my lover was.
“We’ve made love in his room at Hell in the Woods. We propped a chair against the door a couple of times and made love. It was … different. He’s like a kid. Goddamn, he’s like a kid. Right in the middle of things, he recites a jingle from when he was a boy and asks if I know which is correct. Was it, ‘ Hi, my name’s Buster Brown. I live in a shoe. Here’s my dog Tag. Look for him in there, too. ‘? or was it, ‘ Hi, my name’s Buster Brown. I live in a shoe. My dog’s name is Tag. He lives in there, too. ‘?
“When he latches onto something from the past, he can’t let go of it. It’s like he needs to relive his childhood. Unfortunately he’s stuck in this Hell in the Woods place where the average age must be sixty. He’s one of the youngest patients on his floor. And at the rehab cen ter on the second floor the average age is even older because a lot of the stroke victims are from the nursing home wing. The other day Steve wrote on his computer that one of the residents from the nurs ing home says the wing sticks out in the woods as a kind of metaphor for death.”
Lydia picked up Jan’s glass and handed it to her. “Have a swig.”
Jan took a drink of wine and put the glass down. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to go on.”
“You weren’t going on,” said Lydia. “But Steve is doing much bet ter, isn’t he?”
“Sure he is. Of course. And he always puts a positive spin on things.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, he’s been told his muscle tone is nearing full-spasticity stage. It’s when you try to move one joint, the other joints in the same leg or arm move. But he’s using the spasticity to his advantage. He exercises a lot, getting himself ready for when the normal-tone stage arrives. He doesn’t need a hand splint anymore, except when he sleeps. The big success was getting rid of the arm trough on the wheelchair to keep his arm from falling. But he still has to wear a right leg brace to keep his knee from buckling. He does fine in the walker now, but he prefers his wheelchair and says he’ll miss it.
“In rehab they stress working on both his left and right sides, but Steve had me get him a pair of handgrips and a pair of dumbbells and has been working on strengthening his left hand and arm. He says it’s just in case his right arm and leg don’t come back fully.
“His occupational therapist is a really nice gal named Gwen. When I spoke with her the other day, she said the way he’s mastered the computer and elevators and everything else he can get his hands on, that before you know it he’ll be driving.”
Lydia had just taken a sip of wine and put the glass down. “I’ve got a friend up at school named Gwen, Gwen Africa. Great name, huh?”
“Isn’t there a black group where everyone changes their last names to Africa?”
“Yeah,” said Lydia, “but I don’t think she belongs to it. Although she is black. But I interrupted …”
“You want to hear more about rehab?”
“Of course. Does Steve use his computer a lot?”
“Yes.
“About a month after the stroke, Steve said something that really broke my heart. At first I felt angry, then I realized that, because of his difficulty communicating, he was unable to express all the qualifying baggage we sometimes hang on our statements. He could only say it bluntly. He said I should leave him. He said I should find someone else. After I got over the shock, I told him I couldn’t. I told him I had a mystery to solve and that I wouldn’t stop until I’d solved it. I told him I had to solve the mystery of who my lover was.
“We’ve made love in his room at Hell in the Woods. We propped a chair against the door a couple of times and made love. It was … different. He’s like a kid. Goddamn, he’s like a kid. Right in the middle of things, he recites a jingle from when he was a boy and asks if I know which is correct. Was it, ‘ Hi, my name’s Buster Brown. I live in a shoe. Here’s my dog Tag. Look for him in there, too. ‘? or was it, ‘ Hi, my name’s Buster Brown. I live in a shoe. My dog’s name is Tag. He lives in there, too. ‘?
“When he latches onto something from the past, he can’t let go of it. It’s like he needs to relive his childhood. Unfortunately he’s stuck in this Hell in the Woods place where the average age must be sixty. He’s one of the youngest patients on his floor. And at the rehab cen ter on the second floor the average age is even older because a lot of the stroke victims are from the nursing home wing. The other day Steve wrote on his computer that one of the residents from the nurs ing home says the wing sticks out in the woods as a kind of metaphor for death.”
Lydia picked up Jan’s glass and handed it to her. “Have a swig.”
Jan took a drink of wine and put the glass down. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to go on.”
“You weren’t going on,” said Lydia. “But Steve is doing much bet ter, isn’t he?”
“Sure he is. Of course. And he always puts a positive spin on things.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, he’s been told his muscle tone is nearing full-spasticity stage. It’s when you try to move one joint, the other joints in the same leg or arm move. But he’s using the spasticity to his advantage. He exercises a lot, getting himself ready for when the normal-tone stage arrives. He doesn’t need a hand splint anymore, except when he sleeps. The big success was getting rid of the arm trough on the wheelchair to keep his arm from falling. But he still has to wear a right leg brace to keep his knee from buckling. He does fine in the walker now, but he prefers his wheelchair and says he’ll miss it.
“In rehab they stress working on both his left and right sides, but Steve had me get him a pair of handgrips and a pair of dumbbells and has been working on strengthening his left hand and arm. He says it’s just in case his right arm and leg don’t come back fully.
“His occupational therapist is a really nice gal named Gwen. When I spoke with her the other day, she said the way he’s mastered the computer and elevators and everything else he can get his hands on, that before you know it he’ll be driving.”
Lydia had just taken a sip of wine and put the glass down. “I’ve got a friend up at school named Gwen, Gwen Africa. Great name, huh?”
“Isn’t there a black group where everyone changes their last names to Africa?”
“Yeah,” said Lydia, “but I don’t think she belongs to it. Although she is black. But I interrupted …”
“You want to hear more about rehab?”
“Of course. Does Steve use his computer a lot?”
“Yes.
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