Paraplegic (COMPLETED)

Chapter 26

I'm quiet on the way home from the Center, mentally replaying the day's events in my mind. I had fun. That's something I haven't been able to say in a long time.

I wonder what dinner with Calix will be like? Where is he taking me? I think it's safe to rule out Brazilian steakhouse; the guy doesn't have any money, but I'm curious nonetheless. Neither of us can drive, so we'll probably have dinner there at the Center. Maybe he'll prepare a picnic basket and we'll sneak off to a quiet section of the Center and eat couscous and crab stuffed tilapia, then share a warm dish of crème brûlée thereafter. Okay. I fully realize that divine menu isn't at all likely, but PB&J sandwiches are always a simple, yet tasty fallback.

After arriving home, I shove my wheels in the direction of the spare bedroom and proceed through the pair of French doors. I can't wait to tell Aurora everything that's happened.

I come to a stop just before I approach The Bluff. Something's off. Aurora isn't here. Why isn't she here? She's always here. Always.

"Aurora!" My cry is quickly swallowed up by a sudden gust of a late summer breeze.

I remain frozen in my chair, anxiously waiting for an answer as the winds slowly die, watching for any sudden movement from beyond the big oak tree, listening for a snippet of her breath.

Nothing.

Is it because of how our last conversation ended? I didn't mean the things that I said. I was just . . . upset about the surgery failing. I didn't actually mean those things.

I didn't mean them, Rora.

I didn't.

* * *

The following day, noon rolls around and I've already caught myself glancing at my phone's digital clock a half a dozen times or more. I wish I could speed up time and make tonight come sooner. I've been here at the Center for over three hours and still no sign of Calix. He usually visits me by now. Maybe he's getting things ready for dinner. I don't even know what time I'm supposed to meet him.

Since my recent achievement of climbing into my wheelchair all on my own, Desiree has stepped up the workout routine. Earlier this morning, she had me press ten pound kettlebells above my head two hundred times in sets of twenty. I've already accepted my fate; I'm going to be sore tomorrow.

Desiree tosses a chilled bottle of water my way. "Let's see you run that obstacle course again."

I catch the bottle neatly with my right hand. Cracking the lid, I guzzle it quickly; the brisk water feels refreshing as it slides down my dry throat.

The September sun beats down on my bare arms as Desiree moves me outside. The orange maze of traffic cones is already positioned on the unoccupied section of the parking lot.

I look up at Desiree, squinting from the bright sunlight. "Speed?"

She bobs her head in confirmation. "Speed." She then whips out the stopwatch from inside her scrubs pocket.

I steady myself at the makeshift starting line. The miniature traffic cones are once again spaced three or so feet apart from one another, and maybe half a foot from the edge of my wheels. The objective is almost too challenging, like Desiree wants me to fail. But I guess if I do one day get out of this place, functioning in the real world won't be any easier.

I hear her thumb stomp the stopwatch's trigger a millisecond before her go-ahead command. "Go!"

My hands make contact with the wheels, propelling me forward. The first turn is a hard left; I release my grip just a little on my right wheel, while clamping down on the left one, executing a smooth drift. As I finish the corner, the wheels start to skid sideways across the beveled pavement, but I quickly regain control.