Jimmy

It’s your fault he’s the way he is, my mother says to him
If you’d just left well enough alone
His skull wouldn’t have been bashed in
Give it a rest, he says, I wasn’t operating the damn crane
You’re the one got him the job, she says, louder now


For chrissake, Martha, it was a goddam accident
In my mind I can see her jaw set in a firm straight line,
Her eyes turning as cold and hard as railroad steel,
She will turn her back on him
Pretending to busy herself with some menial kitchen task


Footsteps pound up the stairs, pass my room
At least I pray for his healing, she yells after him
On my knees day in and day out!
Do you even pray anymore?
My father does not answer this question


We waited for six hours on the day of the accident to see him
The Nurse avoided our eyes when she ushered us into ICU
Sideswiped specifics in favor of “He may never be the same”
Neurosurgeons was better at delivering truth
“Damaged extensively beyond repair,” is what they said


My mother hovered; hands flitting about like finches
Moving the way people do when they don’t know who or what to touch
He was on life support, they explained, until he could breathe on his own
He’d be better off dead, I thought; then I cried
For thinking such a shameful thing

Dad and I visit him every Saturday
I look at the trees as we drive
Watch the leaves turn from green to crimson-gold
As they circle on wind drifts to the ground
Study the limbs heavy with snow


We drive 2.6 miles on State Street
To the place where the hopeless wait
For visits from the helpless
Dad sits awhile before we go in
Says the engine needs to idle, sighs a lot

Tries to connect with me
Asks me how school is going
I tell him my algebra teacher sucks and I hate P.E.
When the silence gets awkward, we go in
Ride the Otis elevator up to the tenth floor


Jimmy is in the day room, slumped over in his wheelchair
Like someone stole his backbone
He has on a bright orange shirt and purple sweat pants
Sheesh, I say, who dressed you?
He squints up at me, gives me a crooked grin, asks me my name

I’m Anna, I say
Dad says, I’m your Dad before Jimmy can ask who he is
My dad isn’t sure where he fits in anymore
We sit down to play cards and I shuffle the deck
What’s your name? Jimmy says to me again

This is my brother, not the one who helped me with my homework
Or the one who could explain math to me better than my teacher or the one
That used to hide behind the closet door and scare the dickens out of me
His hands shake so hard I’m afraid he will drop his cards
But he hangs on to every one of them


We play King’s Corner and he bellows with laughter
Then I have to draw again and again
He has to bend way over to see his cards
Never misses the Kings
Beats my butt every time

Joy Arnett