Page 35 of Death of the Author

“Hey, I’m Tyrone.”

They all introduced themselves, and just like that, a sixteen-year-old drug dealer with healing legs became part of their group. Tyrone would come to hang out often. His father came by, too, but he operated a food truck and thus could never stay long and Tyrone didn’t seem to want him to. But Tyrone didn’t mind spending time with Zelu and her family and friends.

A month later, Tyrone came by her room just after she’d returned from physical therapy. She was learning how to use a wheelchair and exercising her arms. She was irritable and frustrated. Tyrone wheeled into her room with a smile on his face. He looked good; his hair was freshly braided. He handed her an Almond Joy.

“Oh, Tyrone, thanks,” she said, grinning back.

“Today’s been shit, so I’m trying to balance it out by spreading joy.”

She opened it. She usually found Almond Joys nasty, but she wanted to appreciate what Tyrone had given her. She took a nibble. Not terrible. Actually, not bad at all. “Why?” she asked.

“They think I’ll need to be in these casts for a few more weeks,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Oh,” she said. “Thatisbad.”

“My girl, Mika, keeps wanting to come see me here...” He shook his head with frustration. “Fuck no, man. I don’t want none of them to see me like this.”

She hesitated for a moment, taking a bite of her candy bar. Then she just asked. “Why?”

He gestured toward himself as if it were obvious. “Lookat me.”

She shrugged. “They’re just casts.”

He hit his fist on the armrest of his chair, squeezing his eyes shut. “I look like a fucked-up, rusted-outrobot! I can’t fuckin’ walk!” he shouted.

She should have been angry... but it was odd. She wasn’t. “At leastyou’llwalk again eventually,” she said evenly. She took another bite of her Almond Joy.

He opened his eyes, realizing. “Oh, oh, Zelu, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

She shook her head. “It’s fine.”

“No, I’m an asshole.”

“Seriously, it’s fine,” she said. “You can stay angry. You can stay scared. But it doesn’t fix things. It doesn’t change the situation. My legs may not work, but the rest of my body does. My brain still works. So... so, onward.” She’d meant to be straightforward, no-nonsense about it. But tears started to tumble from her eyes as she spoke. She’d come to this realization a few days ago, after a sleepless night lying in bed, facing her reflection in the dark window. Then the sun had risen, and her reflection had disappeared as the city beyond came into focus. It felt like standing in fire and realizing that though it burned, it wouldn’t swallow her. This was who she was now.

“Most definitely,” Tyrone said, clearly unsure what else hecouldsay.

“Anyway,” Zelu said, wiping her cheek quickly. “I’d love to meet your friends, too. We’re stuck here for a while, so the more people who come through the better. You’ve met my whole family.”

He looked at her for a long time and then cracked a very sheepish grin. “Nah, man, they ain’t comin’ here and they ain’t meeting you.”

She’d blinked. Had he just insulted her?

He looked away ruefully. “Zelu, this place, this fuckin’ hospital, these rooms, these walls... It’s all limbo. I’m... I’m notthis.”

Zelu frowned deeply, hurt. “I... don’t understand.”

He shrugged, still not looking up. “I’m not Tyrone out there. I’m T. Youknowwho I am. They can’t come here, they can’t meet you; I don’t want them to.” He thought for a moment. “I can be who I am here, but only while here.”

She wanted to disagree, but she understood now. The world worked differently here in the hospital.Shewas different. The other day, she’d yelled at her physical therapist for working her too hard; she wasn’t like that atallback home. And where else would she be able to form a close friendship with a sixteen-year-old drug dealer from the West Side of Chicago?

Tyrone left the hospital a week before she did. It wasn’t so bad because her family and friends constantly came to see her, but she did miss him. Only he could relate to what she was going through. When he left, she’d been in physical therapy, so she didn’t even have a chance to say good-bye. She found one of those cheap composition notebooks and a personalized gold-plated pen with a diamond embedded in the side of it sitting on her bed—a parting gift. On the first page, he’d written a note:Onward. Sincerely, T.

He’d left no email or mailing address, no phone number. Just the words.

And onward she’d gone. Her arms grew stronger. She mastered using a wheelchair, and when it came time to buy her own, her parents could fortunately afford a lightweight, expensive one. It was her favorite color—aqua blue—and she stuck colorful stickers all over it with images of the ocean, fish, Aquaman, Conan the Destroyer, Moomin, butterflies, and Godzilla.

The day before she was released, she had her first panic attack. It came out of nowhere. She’d adjusted to her chair and the changes to her life and goals. Her wounds were healed. And in the last two weeks, she’d started growing more adventurous, wheeling around the hospital. That day, she’d taken a left turn instead of a right and found a beautiful courtyard. She’d pushed the button to open the door and wheeled onto the patio. She hadn’t been outside in days, and the first thing she did was look up at the sky and let the sun warm her face. It was glorious.

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