Page 315 - A Little Life: A Novel

head bouncing against the carpeted floor. “Just get out of here, Jude,” he
heard Caleb say, not even yelling, even before his vision returned. “Get out;
I can’t look at you right now.” And so he had, bringing himself to his feet

and walking his ridiculous monster’s walk out of the apartment, leaving
Caleb to clean up the mess he had made.
The next day his face began to turn colors, the area around his left eye
shading into improbably lovely tones: violets and ambers and bottle greens.
By the end of the week, when he went uptown for his appointment with
Andy, his cheek was the color of moss, and his eye was swollen nearly shut,
the upper lid a puffed, tender, shiny red.

“Jesus Christ, Jude,” said Andy, when he saw him. “What the fuck
happened to you?”
“Wheelchair tennis,” he said, and even grinned, a grin he had practiced in
the mirror the night before, his cheek twitching with pain. He had
researched everything: where the matches were played, and how frequently,
and how many people were in the club. He had made up a story, recited it to

himself and to people at the office until it sounded natural, even comic: a
forehand from the opposing player, who had played in college, he not
turning quickly enough, the thwack the ball had made when it hit his face.
He told all this to Andy as Andy listened, shaking his head. “Well,” he
said. “I’m glad you’re trying something new. But Christ, Jude. Is this such a
good idea?”
“You’re the one who’s always telling me to stay off my feet,” he

reminded Andy.
“I know, I know,” said Andy. “But you have the pool; isn’t that enough?
And at any rate, you should’ve come to me after this happened.”
“It’s just a bruise, Andy,” he said.
“It’s a pretty fucking bad bruise, Jude. I mean, Jesus.”
“Well, anyway,” he said, trying to sound unconcerned, even a little

defiant. “I need to talk to you about my feet.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s such a strange sensation; they feel like they’re encased in cement
coffins. I can’t feel where they are in space—I can’t control them. I lift one
leg up and when I put it back down, I can feel in my calf that I’ve placed
the foot, but I can’t feel it in the foot itself.”
“Oh, Jude,” Andy said. “It’s a sign of nerve damage.” He sighed. “The

good news, besides the fact that you’ve been spared it all this time, is that