Fragile Hearts

20: Aide Replacement

During the drive home, I have plenty of time to think. It's been two years since I last saw Morgan, and our face-to-face encounter happened about five years ago. Other than that, she may have seen me ride past her place on a bicycle before I got my truck at seventeen. From our meeting today it doesn't appear that she recognizes me. The last time I drove past her house I was in my truck. I was twenty-one and she was sitting on her porch in her wheelchair reading a book. She didn't even glance up. As usual, my heart shredded when I saw her in that chair. It was later that night that I made the decision to stop driving past her house. There was nothing I could do to change the past and I'd been torn up by it for years.

The time Morgan and I came face-to-face was when I was sixteen and she was almost fifteen—when the scars on her face were still red and irritated. At that time, I was pedaling past her house on my bicycle and her mom was helping her into their car. I followed them to the grocery store and stayed hidden behind another car. I was close enough to hear Morgan arguing with her mother about going into the store. Her mother refused to let her stay in the car. After they entered the market I parked my bike and went in, too. While they shopped I walked the aisles, garnering courage to walk past her. When I reached her, she glanced up and our eyes met. It was only for an instant because she quickly looked away, lifting her hand to cover her cheek. After that, I rushed back to my bike and pedaled away like a madman.

I need to push those old memories aside.

I pull my truck into the driveway of my house. My mom is in the kitchen baking cookies. She loves to bake. "Hi, hon," she calls. "How was your day?"

I pause in the doorway. "I saw her again."

My mom almost drops the sheet of cookies. "You said you weren't going to drive by her house anymore."

"I didn't. She's enrolled in college. I helped her find her class."

My mom sets the cookie sheet on top of the stove and looks at me with rounded eyes. "You talked to her?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"She's very nice."

"So what happens now?"

"I don't know."

My mom returns her attention to the cookies, but I know she's concerned about me.

During the first week of school, I make sure to walk toward my classroom about the same time that Morgan arrives. I joke with her to keep things light between us. I want to become her friend, but I'm not sure I can handle the guilt. When she starts arriving later than usual, I back off; I think she's avoiding me.

My major in college is physical therapy. I intend to eventually get a Masters degree, maybe even a Ph.D., in the field. Morgan is part of the reason I chose that career.

Against my better judgment when one of the aquatic aides calls in sick, I volunteer to help out. I enter the pool area and see Morgan in a blue bathing suit. She's in the lift waiting to be lowered. I speak to the teacher briefly and then head for the pool. "Hello, Morgan. Nice to see you."

She looks upset and doesn't reply. I slip into the water and tell the aide, "I'll be helping Morgan." He swims away. To Morgan, I say, "Are you ready to be lowered?"

She nods.

When she's in the water, I ask, "Ready to leave the lift?" She nods again and I place my hands around her tiny waist. "Put your hands on my shoulders."

Instead of putting her hands on my shoulders, she folds them across her stomach. Part of me wishes I had never volunteered to help and the other part wants to enfold her in my arms. I study her face. She's looking at the eagle tattoo on my pec. "I got that tat when I was twenty. It's my favorite. The others..." I tell her the truth. "I was going through a bad time and they seemed appropriate."

She sounds very annoyed and asks, "What are you doing here?"

"The gym teachers are often short-handed and I like to help out. My major is physical therapy."

"Are you some kind of do-gooder? Helping gym teachers; helping crippled girls."

Before I think, I respond, "You've got a big chip on your shoulder."

"I don't like pity."

"Do you think I pity you?"

"Yes."

The teacher starts calling instructions, so our conversation is cut short.

About halfway through class, Morgan's hair needs to be pulled back and I unclip the thick mahogany curls. I suck a long breath. She has beautiful hair that I want to stroke. While I reclip the mass, she cringes and then starts to shiver. I take a step backward. "Relax, Morgan. Now you can swim without having to wipe hair out of your eyes."

The class finally ends and while we wait in line for the lift, I chance a question, "Shall we finish our conversation?"

She doesn't answer.

Being blunt is not what I want, but I feel compelled to say, "I don't pity you, but I think you pity yourself."

She gives me a stern look. "Whatever."

As I pull myself out of the pool when Morgan is in the lift, I see her glance up at me and then quickly back at the water. I think I'll take my name off the list of substitute aides. Clearly, I make her uncomfortable.