Page 354 - A Little Life: A Novel

and change the dressings starting tomorrow. He’s not going to want to let
you, but it’s too fucking bad. I wrote down all the instructions in here.”
He handed me a plastic bag; I looked inside: bottles of pills, rolls of

bandages, tubes of cream. “These,” said Andy, plucking something out, “are
painkillers, and he hates them. But he’s going to need them; make him take
a pill every twelve hours: once in the morning, once at night. They’re going
to make him woozy, so don’t let him outside on his own, don’t let him lift
anything. They’re also going to make him nauseated, but you have to make
him eat: something simple, like rice and broth. Try to make him stay in his
chair; he’s not going to want to move around much anyway.

“I called his dentist and made an appointment for Monday at nine; he’s
lost a couple of teeth. The most important thing is that he sleeps as much as
he can; I’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon and every night this week. Do not
let him go to work, although—I don’t think he’ll want to.”
He stopped as abruptly as he’d started, and we stood there in silence. “I
can’t fucking believe this,” Andy said, finally. “That fucking asshole. I want

to find that fuck and kill him.”
“I know,” I said. “Me too.”
He shook his head. “He wouldn’t let me report it,” he said. “I begged
him.”
“I know,” I said. “Me too.”
It was a shock anew to see him, and he shook his head when I tried to
help him into the chair, and so we stood and watched as he lowered himself

into the seat, still in his same clothes, the blood now dried into rusty
continents. “Thank you, Andy,” he said, very quietly. “I’m sorry,” and Andy
placed his palm on the back of his head and said nothing.
By the time we got back to Greene Street, it was dark. His wheelchair
was, as you know, one of those very lightweight, elegant ones, one so
aggressive about its user’s self-sufficiency that there were no handles on it,

because it was assumed that the person in it would never allow himself the
indignity of being pushed by another. You had to grab the top of the
backrest, which was very low, and guide the chair that way. I stopped in the
entryway to turn on the lights, and we both blinked.
“You cleaned,” he said.
“Well, yes,” I said. “Not as good a job as you would’ve done, I’m
afraid.”

“Thank you,” he said.