Just this Once

Just This Once

This nurse is horrified I leave my first appointment alone: this is her face at a party when a drunk squeezes

past her on the way to a Mustang, the pinched lips through which she offers to ferry her guest home.

She insists she wheel me to my car, parked down the street, and I expect her to ask next for my keys, which rough my skin

through my pocket, pressed tightly between lining and brace. We’re awkward, our progress bumpy, and we chat

about weather. She asks if my appointment was helpful. At the car, she takes the key ring from me, unlocks the Saturn,

places my bag on the passenger seat. She locks each chair wheel slowly, my knees facing gray polyester. “Next time,” she says,

“you really need to arrange a ride. You probably shouldn’t drive.” I smile and promise I will. I’m sure she’s heard this before.

We both know I don’t have a ride. For a moment, she seems unsure, settles on grabbing up under my armpits, does a practiced

three-count, and swivels me into my seat. She’s done this before. I thank her, but she waits until I’ve pulled in both legs, buckled

the belt, adjusted the seat and mirror. She stays until the engine grumbles and coughs. I smile and wave. Wiggle my fingers

like an untamed teen. In the rearview mirror, she pushes the wheelchair up over the curb for probably the thousandth time—shakes her head.

As she gets smaller and smaller, I wish I’d tucked her in my trunk, taken her and her swivel-and-lift home with me.

The apartment will be quiet and dim. The porch’s stairs steep.