Fix by J. Mann (highly illogical behavior .TXT) 📕

all my nooks and crannies like heavy rainwater racing down muddy slopes and bubbling over worn rocks, making its way to a river, an ocean.

I hold on to her shoulders while she pulls on my sweats. The clean cotton sliding up my freshly shaved legs feels so good I shiver.

We Velcro me back into my second home, and then my mother prepares for the hair washing by placing a thick towel on the tub wall for support. I get down on my knees, lean into the tub—belly to towel—and allow my head to hang from my neck. The tug on my sore spine feels strange, but not bad.

“Here goes,” she says.

Staring down at the bath mat on the tub floor, I zone in and out while my mother washes my hair, the Roxy sending all my thoughts to a galaxy far, far away. She very delicately douses my head with warm water, lathers my hair using her strong fingers, and gently rinses it while water runs down my face, dripping off my nose, my eyelashes.

“How you doing?” she asks every few minutes.

My only response is “Mmmm.”

When she’s done, she asks if I can stand it a little longer while she conditions it. I can’t. My spine is so done in this position, even with the Roxy.

She towels my wet hair and we go out to the living room where I lie on the couch and she combs my hair out over the armrest. The soft tugging at my scalp puts me into a deep coma-like state where I’m safe and happy and peering out between the branches of yellow forsythia.

“Eve,” she says.

My name. The name she gave me. I don’t often hear her say it like this. Like she is going to say something that’s just for me.

“I’m sorry that I have to leave you.”

She’s sorry.

Sorry. To leave me.

She’s leaving.

Turning from the

mirror… toward the

restroom door.

“Lidia, no,” I whisper.

“Eve?”

When I open my eyes, I find my mother standing in front of me.

I clear my throat. “I think I need more medicine.”

She quickly fetches my Roxy and hands me one. This time, nothing happens in slow motion.

I watch her turn and walk away.

Alone.

In the living room.

I remember the rumble of the truck,

the squeak of the brakes, and

my signature on the tablet.

The Real One

You didn’t forget.

We sat in my living room

over the next week

waiting for the hand, while you

jabbered on and on

about Jayden…

A guy who

basically

stole your hat.

I knew you were attempting to drive

all the things I knew,

all the things you knew,

out of our minds as we munched on veggie sticks,

twisted our hair into different romantic messy buns,

and

watched out the window for the UPS truck.

You never brought up my surgery, but

neither did I. Ten days and getting closer every second.

So was Saturday, which was coming even faster.

You were seriously busy.

Trying on everything in your closet.

Trying on everything in mine.

Each outfit chosen to show off your coming hand.

Your coming hand.

As Saturday approached, I could feel what

little control I had

slipping away.

Still. I tried.

“Lid—” I said,

that Friday afternoon

as you lined your eye

in smoky grays.

“Don’t,” you said,

cutting me off so fast and final

it left me breathless and

struggling under the weight of

every single moment in my life

where I’d felt

different and

awkward and

ugly and

deformed and

wrong,

just fucking wrong.

You showed up Saturday night

with your eyelashes

dark and long, and your

cheeks flushed red with

Tea Rose Tickle

blush.

You did not wear a hat, but you

did wear a dress.

One with long, flowing sleeves.

You were gorgeous.

“Fuck the hand,”

you said, and we

hopped in your car, and

drove off.

Fuck the hand.

You didn’t need it.

Fuck the hand.

You could do anything.

Fuck the hand.

You never needed two hands.

Fuck the hand.

The one you weren’t hiding

under your sleeve.

Because I had it hidden

under my bed.

Say Something

“HONEY, I’M HOME!” MARY FAY SHOUTS, STARTLING THE SHIT out of me on the couch, which sends pain shooting everywhere. I groan, but Mary Fay misses it under the clatter of her suitcase rolling across the threshold.

My mother rushes out of her bedroom, greeting Mary Fay with a big hug and kiss. Even Mary Fay is a little knocked off-balance by it. It’s strange to see my mother being so affectionate. She’s obviously excited to leave.

She’s leaving.

I can’t help glancing guiltily at my orange bottle.

“More in the car?”

“A bit,” Meef says.

My mother disappears out the front door while Mary Fay drops a heavy-looking shopping bag onto the nearest armchair, rolling her suitcase into the center of the living room. “How’s the patient?”

It’s more a greeting than a question, and she heads back out to help my mother unload the rest of her stuff.

Alone again, I close my eyes and fade away. Although now it’s my mother’s turn to clop across the threshold and I can’t help but crack open my eyes in pure annoyance. Mary Fay is right behind her rolling a second suitcase even louder than the first.

“In the bedroom?” my mother asks, struggling under the weight of two shopping bags’ worth of books.

“No, maybe on the dining room table,” Meef says, grabbing one from her and dumping it on the table. “This all yours?” she asks me, gesturing toward my stack of homework. I blink at her, hoping that like her greeting, this question also doesn’t need a response.

Mary Fay picks up my history textbook and smiles over the top of it. “Me and Eve. Drinking the java and burning up our brains.”

“I can’t wait,” I say. Feeling very much like I can wait. A long time, in fact. And also, that maybe I’m in some trouble.

“Okay, let’s get you settled in,” my mother suggests.

Mary Fay places my textbook back onto the table and heads for one of the suitcases, while my mother takes hold of the other.

“Nice telescope,” Mary Fay says, before they head down the hall past my bedroom to my mother’s.

I close my eyes. My telescope is a sore subject at the moment.

“What’s it doing