I grab the headboard and roll onto my side. My complete lack of legs affords me little in the usual ability once done with ease. Pushing against the sheet until upright, I look around the room.
"Morning Yae," Mark says matter of factly as returns from the bathroom. Pausing by the balcony door, he watches the surf crash against the white sands and the luscious bikini clad women strolling casually through the remains of the waves receding back where they came from.
Still undressed, I swing myself onto the cushion of my wheelchair and roll beside him. My hand strokes his thigh and across his hip. "You wish I was still like them, don't you."
He continues to watch the women, probably even the same one I watch - the one with a black thong bottom against nicely tanned skin. Her firm young breasts overflow the matching top. He sighs and I understand his answer. It has been coming for a while and I have struggled with the thought he will leave me. I had hoped this weekend at the coast would help. We had even arrived separately so we could pretend it had been a chance meeting filled with wild passion.
There had been talk for months before my trip for the amputations about why. He never 'got' my need to take such drastic action. The fact that I had to make the trip to Bangkok alone told me that the relationship wasn't going to last. After my return, he made love to me twice, almost begrudgingly, as if a duty, and not because he wanted me. He didn't even bother to kiss me everywhere as he used to love to do, as I loved him to do.
My hand rubs softly over the back of his boxers and inside the leg opening as I think about how I had taken to satisfying my own needs, and how he might never be inside of me again.
"It's over, isn't it?" I quiz as a tear forms. Emotions are uncontrollable and the floodgates soon open. I roll away and begin to dress, not wanting to hear the answer. He stares straight ahead in silence.
I fluff the empty piece of my short skirt in front of me and wiggle to get comfortable on the cushion before asking again. Still there is no answer. Pausing briefly at the door, I turn the chair towards him. "Sorry." The tears blur everything. The door clicks shut behind me and I roll towards the elevator.
As I stow each wheel then the chair into my car, I consider what to do next. A successful author for a dozen years, I can write anywhere. I have money.
The wind blows though the open car widow as I pull away from the hotel parking lot. I think about how I enjoyed the few weeks in Bangkok, I had been born there of Thai parents. After moving away, I had kept my name, both first and last - Yae Cowen. My features had been one of the things that had attracted Mark to me. He loved short, slender, Asian women. I was like that. I still am, just I have no legs.
-
Jen, the wife in the apartment next door, and I are casual friends and have coffee once a week for 'women talk', sometimes more often. I'd confided about the growing distance with Mark, but not the truth about my legs. She, like other women I'd known, was unhappy with her husband. We'd hugged, kissed, necked some, and on occasion, we did more. Now she helps me fill a few boxes and store them a rented storage unit, throw other things in the garbage. I am not a 'collector' of things. It only takes a few hours.
I laugh aloud as I think about the lack of shoes, socks, and stocking or even pants or jeans I've packed as I wave backing out of her driveway. I had promised to write. I will.
Heading west towards the ocean, traffic is light for the next few hours. Sleep and hunger eventually overtake me as night quickly fills the sky. A restless night in a crummy motel after a crummy meal does little to change that. Breakfast is not much better, but I feel free.
Driving north for most of a day, the shore changes from flat sandy beaches of brown sand into rough rocky cliffs with waves crashing up high in loud pounding surges. The road winds and twists though dense forests. Daylight is fading and I am tired as I leave the small village of Sea Crest. Ahead on the left is a sign for a bed and breakfast. I question if it is accessible. Usually they aren't. I even drive past without checking. At the last moment, a wheelchair ramp up to the large wide veranda of the older two-story Victorian home becomes visible. A few dormer windows peak from the steep roof as though there may be a third story. I make a hasty u-turn and pull into the parking area.
The ramp has a shallow slope and it is easy to make my way to the large front door. Inside, there is no counter, but rather a wooden desk in a parlor. A fireplace with a small fire crackles nearby. The man sitting behind the desk looks up and smiles a welcoming smile. "We officially closed for the season yesterday," he says. "I haven't put up the sign." My frown and disappointed look prompt him to say, "I can give you a good rate on a good room if you don't mind that we won't be serving any meals."
"That would be great. I was hoping to stay for a few days, maybe a week."
"I can do that." He hands me a sheet of paper laminated with clear plastic like a menu. Each room has the name of a famous author - Melville, Hawthorne, and so on. He sees the expression on my face. "It seemed like a good idea once."
"I'm an author. It's cool. Which room looks out to the ocean? I was hoping the sounds of the surf might inspire my writing." I laugh.
"That would be the Melville. The Thoreau looks out to the large trees." He chuckles.
He is missing his right hand. With the other, he pushes the registration form towards me. I say nothing as I write.
"All of the downstairs rooms are wheelchair accessible including the bathrooms," he casually remarks.
It is something I just assumed. Otherwise, he probably wouldn't have offered me a room I could not get into. "Remarkably nice," I say as I push the form back. "So many B&B's aren't."
"When I bought the place and turned it into an Inn, it seemed like a good idea ... like the names for the rooms." He laughs. "I rarely get anyone that needs that."
"I'm glad I can make it worthwhile." I smile, wondering if there is more that he is not telling me.
He carries my bag and laptop from the car and shows me down a hallway to a large bedroom with the bath off to one side. A queen bed covered with a white quilt is against one wall. Pushed against another wall is a desk, a window looking out to the ocean is centered over the desk. Next to the desk is a wide door that opens onto a veranda. A large fan hangs from the high ceiling, the blades now still for the season.
"This is wonderful. I love the wallpaper and decorations. All of the right period."
"My room is down the hall, number seven, if you need anything." He points with the handless arm. "I usually close up about eight."
"Maybe I'll go back towards town. I saw a cafe. I'll be back before eight."
-
The cafe door slams shut behind me and a metal bell jingles. A single person, a large woman, sits at a table in the center of the room, eating. The fabric of her worn dress stretched tight so that every roll of her body shows. The waitress suggests I sit anywhere and hands me a menu.
"Hey!" the large woman yells. "No use eating alone." Her hand waves me towards her. Reluctantly, I go in that direction.
Pushing a chair out of the way, I park my wheelchair. She studies me intently. "You're 'not' from around here, are-e you?" she says in a voice with a strong accent, American south I guess, but say nothing about it. "Dottie's the name," she roars in a loud voice.
"Yae," I say softly, wondering if she understands what I've said. I consider spelling my name for her, but don't, instead just offer a smile.
"Hamburger, fries, Coke," I tell the waitress. She shakes her head and mentions they only have Pepsi and ice tea. I frown and order ice tea. Happy with my order, the waitress leaves.
"Commies," Dottie whispers. "Not serving Coke ah-h Co-la-a should be a crime. It is back home in Atlanta." She forks a large bite of apple pie into her mouth then some vanilla ice cream. I watch her full mouth move as she chews. "Where 'you' from?" she says, drawing the word 'you' out as she swallows.
"I was born in Bangkok."
"Bang Cock-k ... that always sounds so nasty."
I am tempted to correct her, but know it will be futile. Anyway, she continues before I can say anything.
"Gus, up at the Inn, I suspect that's where you're staying since you're crippled and in that wheelchair, well he was going to marry some Asian woman ... Ping, Pang, names all sound the same to me. Only she didn't want to marry anyone. She was in a wheelchair. No legs, just like you. She went to some foreign country and had them cut off 'cause she wanted it done. Ain't that the queerest thing?"
I was already pissed at the woman, now my rage is uncontrollable. The waitress puts the oval shaped red basket containing my food in front of me, trapping me for a while longer in the company of the dreadful person. I eat in silence, occasionally glaring at Dottie.
