“You want to know something, Quadir?”
“What?” Quadir snapped.
“A paralyzed man wouldn’t be able to sit up in bed.”
Quadir looked down and examined himself. He caught on to what she had done.
“You’re not a coward. You’re a fighter. The way you were going to come after me, that’s the same determination that you have to use to regain all your abilities. You have to fight for your life again. Fight to get it back! If you are counting on some medicine or some magic potion or formula to give it back to you, it ain’t going to happen. Sorry, brother, but nothing like that has been invented yet. You’re going to have to fight.”
“You should be a motivational speaker,” he said sarcastically.
“You should sell shit to mushroom farms, ’cause you’re really an asshole.”
Quadir laughed. She was sharp. He had tried her. Tried to push her buttons, disrespected her, doubted her even. But it was now obvious that she was the real deal.
“Do you want to walk again?” Amelia asked.
Quadir shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.”
She had heard that answer before. She had done volunteer work the previous summer in Chad. Many soldiers had given her the same answer. Walk again for what? To go back out there and face a world that would still be just as hard, just as hostile to them? She knew where his answer was coming from.
“You don’t know, because what would change, huh? What would be different in the world if you went back out there again? Everything would be just the same, all of the bullshit would be exactly the same. Am I right?”
Quadir shifted his gaze toward her.
“One thing would be different. You. You would know that you took what the world threw at you, and you handled it. You get up, go back out there, and you smile at that fucked-up world, and you let it know that it didn’t defeat you. Let them know that they may have knocked you down, but that you got right back up. Let them know that you are a real soldier, a warrior for your people! You may encounter defeats, but you must not be defeated!”
“You’re quoting Maya Angelou now.”
Amelia recoiled slightly. She had been taken by surprise. “How did you know that?”
“I can read.”
“I’m shocked.”
“That I can read?”
“That you would know Maya. Most guys your age…”
“I guess we both made the mistake of prejudging each other.”
“I guess we did.”
Neal walked into the room pushing a wheelchair. “Wow, look at you sitting up!” He parked the chair next to Quadir’s bed and then helped him into it. “Be back in a while, doc.”
Amelia nodded.
Quadir stopped the chair just before they were about to exit and turned back toward her.
“No more prejudging each other?”
“No more prejudging each other.”
Neal looked at them strangely.
Quadir smiled and shook his head. “You’re a pain in the ass, doc. And that’s no prejudgment.”
Amelia threw her head back and laughed. “And you are an asshole, Mr. Smith. A bona fide asshole who’s full of shit.”
Quadir wheeled himself out of the room smiling.
The Good Foot
Amelia strolled into the physical therapy room and spied Quadir in a nearby corner with Neal. Neal had Quadir lying on his back on a mat, while Neal was pushing his leg forward, shouting for Quadir to push. He had been in therapy for only a few days now, and results had been slow in coming. Quadir was not physically disabled. He was simply indifferent to trying. He acted as though he simply wanted to give up.
She approached and stood over him. “Lying on your ass again, huh?”
“Now is not the time for humor,” Quadir told her.
“Any time is a good time for humor. How’s he coming along, Neal?”
“If he would put as much effort into his therapy as he did into resisting it, he’d be ready to run a marathon right now.”
Amelia nodded. “So, what’s the deal, Quadir?”
“Ain’t no deal.”
“Push,” Neal ordered.
“I am pushing; can’t you tell?”
“You’re not pushing. I know that you got more in you than this. Hey, if you don’t want to walk, that’s your problem. I can’t make you walk.”
“Then why don’t you just leave me alone. I was fine lying in my bed watching TV. You came and got me, remember?”
“A regular wiseass,” Neal said, peering up at Amelia.
“I already know.”
“Aren’t you like a surgeon or something?” Quadir asked. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere cutting somebody open, and charging them an arm and a leg for it?”
“Neal, let me take over for a little while,” Amelia told him.
Neal nodded. He was happy to be rid of Quadir Richards, if only for today. “Be my guest, please!”
“Hang close, I’m going to need you to help me get him into his chair.”
“I’ll be right across the room if you need me,” said Neal.
Amelia turned to Quadir. “I thought that we had this conversation already.”
“And what conversation is that?”
“The conversation about you being a quitter.”
“We didn’t converse. You talked; I listened.”
“Funny. So are you going to be a coward and just give up?”
“I thought you said that I wasn’t a coward?”
“All quitters are cowards.”
“Kenny Rogers said that you got to know when to fold ’em.”
“So, your life is a game of cards now?”
“Life has always been nothing but one big gamble.”
“So you fold, huh? Gonna go back to your room, cash in all of your chips, and call it quits? I wish I would have known you were a quitter before. I wouldn’t have wasted my time.”
“Why did you?”
“Because I saw a man who wouldn’t quit! Because I saw a man who refused to give up, a man who refused to die! I thought you were a fighter.”
“It’s real easy to stand there and judge somebody! You haven’t been through what I’ve been through!”
“Oh, you poor baby! You got shot. So the fuck what! So now what are you going to do? Are you going to get back on the goddamned bike, or what?”
“What?”
“You heard me! What are you going to do, Quadir? When little kids get a boo boo, they get up, dust themselves off, get back out there, and keep going. What are you going to do, little boy? ’Cause frankly, just about everybody in here is tired of your whiney attitude. It’s time to either shit or get off the pot!”
Quadir went for his wheelchair. He pulled it close, put the brakes on it, and then pulled himself up onto it. The therapists in the room clapped when he was finished. Quadir looked at Amelia as if he wanted to kill her.
“I don’t need your fucking help! Yours and nobody else’s!”
“You owe these people in here more than that! You owe them more than your scorn. You owe a whole lot of people some goddamned effort!”
“Everyone keeps telling me what I owe. Everyone keeps telling me how grateful I should be, how good of a goddamned doctor you are, but you know what? I can’t see it! All I see is a fucking pain in the ass!”
“You fucking quitter. If you don’t believe that you owe these people who have spent all of their time taking care of you, trying to get you better, then maybe I can take you to somebody who you do think you owe something to!”
Amelia grabbed Quadir’s chair, turned him around, and pushed him out the room. She headed down the hall, out of the therapy ward, around a few corners, and into the chapel.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Quadir asked.
“When’s the last time you sat and prayed, Quadir?”
“I prayed the other night.”
“You should pray every day.”
“Don’t tell me what I need to do. What are you, a priest and a doctor?”
“If I were a priest, I would drown your ass in some holy water.”
Quadir smiled.
“Someone wants to see you. Since you don’t feel like you owe any of us any effort, then maybe you’ll try to get better for her.” Amelia pushed him all the way into the chapel.