“Oh no,” he says. “Oh shit.” He rushes down the stairs, nearly falling down himself. He kneels next to her and almost moves her but stops when he remembers that you aren’t supposed to move people with spinal injuries. So he yells her name over and over until he’s sure she’s not going to answer. She’s dead, and he’s killed her. Then, she moans. The response time is great, a real credit to emergency medicine. The paramedics do what they can, but there’s no saving that twisted, destroyed spine. They all know she won’t walk again, even without the X-rays and MRIs. But, they are kinder to him than the police. The detectives grill him. His entire world is filled with the sounds of interrogation, the fists pounding on the tables, the hard lock of cell doors and even the low hum of the harsh fluorescent lighting overhead. And then, there are the accusations. The officers tell him they’ll get the truth. Their words are like sledgehammers crushing bones, bluntly telling him how he pushed her down the steps and watched as she tumbled to the floor. He spends every night for three weeks waking from nightmares of prison bars, sweat and tears in his eyes as the pulse pounds in his ears. But there are no charges filed. She doesn’t remember what happened. 108
“Amnesia,” the lead detective tells him across the long interrogation desk. How convenient for him. When he’s finally allowed to visit her, he cries. Her body is broken and her mind is polluted by painkillers. She shits in a bag; this is what repulses him the most. That she shits in a bag and needs a nurse to clean her when she’s done. She remembers him, remembers they were fighting but doesn’t remember about what. He tells her it was over something stupid; he can’t even remember. He tells her he loves her with all his heart. She is depressed when he brings her home. She hasn’t adjusted to the wheelchair and resents the constant attention she needs. He dutifully cares for her, but it doesn’t temper her moods, which swing from despondent to furious. He carries her up the same stairs he pushed her down every night when they go to bed. He remembers. It all started with a shove. She is looking at him now, her face that same shade of red. She’s furious she can’t take a bath by herself. She yells and curses as he holds her tight at the top of the stairs. And when she slaps him, he can feel the sting linger as the old tempo in his ears starts up again, each beat reminding him of the old war drum as he looks down the stairs to the whitetiled foyer below.