Page 311 - A Little Life: A Novel

raised his hand in his direction and Caleb had given him a barely
perceptible nod: neither of them were demonstrative people—and watched
Caleb until he finished his conversation and the other man had begun

walking east.
“Hi,” he said, as Caleb came over to him.
“Why are you in your wheelchair?” Caleb demanded.
For a moment, he couldn’t speak, and when he did, he stammered. “I had
to use it today,” he finally said.
Caleb sighed, and rubbed at his eyes. “I thought you didn’t use it.”
“I don’t,” he said, so ashamed that he could feel himself start to sweat.

“Not really. I only use it when I absolutely have to.”
Caleb nodded, but continued pinching the bridge of his nose. He
wouldn’t look at him. “Look,” he said at last, “I don’t think we should have
dinner after all. You’re obviously not feeling well, and I’m tired. I’ve got to
get some sleep.”
“Oh,” he said, dismayed. “That’s all right. I understand.”

“Okay, good,” said Caleb. “I’ll call you later.” He watched Caleb move
down the street with his long strides until he disappeared around the corner,
and then had gotten into his car and driven home and cut himself until he
was bleeding so much that he couldn’t grip the razor properly.
The next day was Friday, and he didn’t hear from Caleb at all. Well, he
thought. That’s that. And it was fine: Caleb didn’t like the fact that he was
in a wheelchair. Neither did he. He couldn’t resent Caleb for not being able

to accept what he himself couldn’t accept.
But then, on Saturday morning, Caleb called just as he was coming back
upstairs from the pool. “I’m sorry about Thursday night,” Caleb said. “I
know it must seem heartless and bizarre to you, this—aversion I have to
your wheelchair.”
He sat down in one of the chairs around the dining-room table. “It

doesn’t seem bizarre at all,” he said.
“I told you my parents were sick for much of my adult life,” Caleb said.
“My father had multiple sclerosis, and my mother—no one knew what she
had. She got sick when I was in college and never got better. She had face
pains, headaches: she was in a sort of constant low-grade discomfort, and
although I don’t doubt it was real, what bothered me so much is that she
never seemed to want to try to get better. She just gave up, as did he.

Everywhere you looked there was evidence of their surrender to illness: