Page 153 - A Little Life: A Novel

with Andy the last time this happened, when Andy suggested he get a
wheelchair to keep on reserve, and although he hates the thought of using a
wheelchair again, he will wish he had one now. He will think that Andy is

right, that his walks are a sign of his inexcusable hubris, that his pretending
that everything is fine, that he is not in fact disabled, is selfish, for the
consequences it means for other people, people who have been inexplicably,
unreasonably generous and good to him for years, for almost decades now.
He will turn off the shower and lower himself into the tub and lean his
cheek against the tile and wait to feel better. He will be reminded of how
trapped he is, trapped in a body he hates, with a past he hates, and how he

will never be able to change either. He will want to cry, from frustration and
hatred and pain, but he hasn’t cried since what happened with Brother Luke,
after which he told himself he would never cry again. He will be reminded
that he is a nothing, a scooped-out husk in which the fruit has long since
mummified and shrunk, and now rattles uselessly. He will experience that
prickle, that shiver of disgust that afflicts him in both his happiest and his

most wretched moments, the one that asks him who he thinks he is to
inconvenience so many people, to think he has the right to keep going when
even his own body tells him he should stop.
He will sit and wait and breathe and he will be grateful that it is so early,
that there is no chance of Willem discovering him and having to save him
once again. He will (though he won’t be able to remember how later)
somehow work himself into a standing position, get himself out of the tub,

take some aspirin, go to work. At work, the words will blur and dance on
the page, and by the time Andy calls, it will only be seven a.m., and he will
tell Marshall he’s sick, refuse Marshall’s offer of a car, but let him—this is
how bad he feels—help him into a cab. He will make the ride uptown that
he had stupidly walked just the previous day. And when Andy opens the
door, he will try to remain composed.

“Judy,” Andy will say, and he will be in his gentle mode, there will be no
lectures from him today, and he will allow Andy to lead him past his empty
waiting room, his office not yet open for the day, and help him onto the
table where he has spent hours, days of hours, will let Andy help undress
him even, as he closes his eyes and waits for the small bright hurt of Andy
easing the tape off his leg, and pulling away from the raw skin the sodden
gauze beneath.