Marie Anderson

Not Today

From his bed, Finn stared out the glass wall overlooking his backyard. Rain stabbed the glass. A gorgeous dying ash tree—infected with emerald ash borer—shivered and spasmed in the wind. One crow, then two, burst from the tree, cawing.

“Raining hard today,” Finn said to his wife. “And windy. Like it was exactly six years ago.”

Libby sat in the rocker next to his bed, knitting a green sweater for their 5-year-old daughter. She did not look up.

“I wish I could go out now,” he said. “Feel the rain. Let the wind and rain push me around.”

Libby set down her knitting. She looked at her watch. “Benny’s due in 14 minutes. He’ll take you outside, if you want.”

Finn shook his head, one of the few body parts he could still move.

“There won’t be time. Too much for Benny to do today. Bowel program, for one.”

Finn watched Libby. He saw no revulsion pinch her face. He saw something worse. Boredom.

“22,514 tickets sold,” he said. “That day. Six years ago today. But who knows how many were really there.”

“All there for you, Finn,” she murmured. She glanced at her watch, resumed knitting.

“Not for me,” Finn said. “No one pays attention to the keyboard player.”

He waited for her to remind him that the band had been built around his poetry and his melodies.

“Damn!” she said. “Dropped a stitch.”

He closed his eyes, saw again the thousands of fans filling the huge field behind the barricades in front of the stage. Most were draped in the plastic green rain ponchos which the state fair organizers had distributed free to every ticket holder.

Finn’s band had been scheduled for one show at the state fair. Not Finn’s band, really. The band had always been about its charismatic front man, Keelan Driggs. Finn’s best friend since junior high.

A state fair was normally a venue too unimportant for the band, but Libby’s mother was personal assistant to the lieutenant governor, so, as a favor to Libby, the band had agreed to do one show.

They were The Draft Stand. An alt rock band who had played Chicago’s Lollapalooza, done Letterman, Saturday Night Live, and were scheduled to do Madison Square Garden a week after their performance at the state fair.

That, of course, never happened.

There’d been a severe storm warning issued shortly before the band was ready to take the stage. It had been raining off and on all day.

“Maybe we should delay the concert,” a fair official in a blue suit and tie had suggested to the band.

Driggs, already shirtless, had laughed. “It’s only rain, dude,” he said. “We can play.”

***

Finn felt Libby’s knitting needle softly scratch his cheek.

He opened his eyes, smiled. “How’d you know I was itching there?”

“I can tell,” she said. “Your skin quivers where you itch.”

“Thank you,” he said.

She nodded, knitting again, not looking up from her work.

He closed his eyes again, listened to the rhythmic click from Libby’s knitting needles and the rain slashing the glass wall.

He knew if he opened his eyes, he wouldn’t see Libby knitting. He wouldn’t see his huge bedroom with the wheelchair and electric spin bike in one corner, the pulley contraption in another, his daughter’s kindergarten art masterpieces thumbtacked to the walls.

He’d see the fans, the rain-drenched fans, pickled in their plastic green rain ponchos, the last thing he’d seen as an able-bodied man.

***

He’d been positioned, as always, at the back of the stage, while his three bandmates postured and preened stage front. His fingers flew over the piano. In a few minutes, for his solo, he’d swivel from his classic piano to his Fender Rhode electric piano.

Finn stopped playing while the guitars and bass took over.

He looked at Libby. She stood off to the side in the shadows of the covered stage, gazing at Driggs. Driggs’ voice soared. His naked chest glistened with sweat. Libby’s palms pressed into her still flat belly. She was four weeks pregnant, often racked with nausea.

Finn was pumped on Adderall and two lines of coke. He saw everything.

In the distance, he saw the giant Ferris wheel shudder to a stop, its lights blink off. Probably shut down because of the rain, Finn thought. The wind had picked up too. A red baseball cap flew up from some fan’s head.

Finn saw Libby slap her hand to her mouth and hurry off the stage.

To vomit, Finn knew. He was turning 27 tomorrow. In eight months he’d be a father. Finally achieving something over Driggs.

He swiveled to the electric piano and began flying solo, burning as the crowd roared, his fingers tearing up the keys, melting the black and whites, spinning glissandos and triplets with his right while pounding with his left.

He glanced up at the cheering, roaring rain-drenched pickles, and that’s when it happened.

Thunder rocked Finn’s body. Except it wasn’t thunder. It was a tremendous howl of wind and then the collapse of the stage roof. Something slammed his body to the stage floor. He heard a fierce cracking sound. He couldn’t move. Excruciating pain radiated from his neck. He blacked out.

***

Of the four band members, Finn was the only survivor. Paralyzed from the shoulders down. A C4 quadriplegic.

***

He still took drugs. Not fun drugs anymore. No more vodka, Adderall, coke, weed. But pills. Lots of pills. Pills to control chest pains and nerve pains and muscle spasms. Pills for improving bladder and bowel control. Pills for his fevers, chills, cold sweat. Pills for depression and anxiety. Pills for sleep.

***

A knock on the door opened Finn’s eyes. He saw relief on Libby’s face. “Come on in, Benny!” she said.

She stood as a short bald man pushed his bulk into the room. Tattoos inked his arms and scalp. A smile and bright green eyes energized his smooth-shaven face.

“Mornin’ Boss, Miz Boss.”

“Shift change!” Libby said.

“Ouch,” Finn said. “That’s how you see quality time with me?”

“I’m joking, Finn.” She was already at the door, looking at her watch. “You know I have to get Hazel from school.”

“So what’s on tap? Another six-hour play date? For Hazel, I mean.”

“What are you implying Finn?”

“I’m implying that I never see my daughter much these days. Kindergarten is done at 11:30. You guys are gone till dinner time.”

“What, you want your 5-year-old daughter here while you’re doing your bowel program today, Finn? Say the word. We’ll skip her 90-minute play date and her trip to the mall so she can watch Benny help you shit.”

“Love you too!” Finn shouted when she slammed the door behind her.

“She hates me,” Finn said as Benny maneuvered Finn into the Hoyer lift.

“You can only hate what you love, Boss.” The lift deposited Finn on the toilet.

They began the hour-long bowel program. Benny gave Finn a suppository, then digitally stimulated Finn’s body to “go” multiple times, each time inserting his finger to verify if Finn’s bowel was clean.

Benny talked the whole time. It was one of the reasons Benny was Finn’s favorite personal aide.

“I despise this, Benny,” Finn gasped as nausea spasmed his body. “I despise being so helpless, so useless.”

“It’s uselessness that makes you useful, Boss.”

The state paid for Finn’s aides, therapists, nurses, doctors. The state had been found negligent in the improper construction of the stage rigging. Hazel and Libby and Finn would always be provided for. Under the terms of the settlement, all their bills, including Hazel’s future college, were the state’s responsibility.

“Six years is long enough, Benny. Not even the doctors are saying anymore that I might walk again. So what that I’m an incomplete quad if I’m still paralyzed. I’m going to be 33 tomorrow. Jesus was 33 when he died. I don’t want to live longer than Jesus.”

“Happy birthday, Boss.”

“Here’s what you can give me, Benny. For my birthday. Set me free. A pillow over my face. What do you say?”

“You got a beautiful little girl to help your wife love.”

“I appreciate and resent that you didn’t say help my wife raise. I appreciate and resent that you said beautiful little girl not beautiful little daughter.”

“It’s not who has a kid, Boss. It’s who loves a kid.”

“She’s got Driggs’s blonde hair. And a fine singing voice. Perfect pitch. Honey tone. Like Driggs. Me, I couldn’t carry a tune when I was able-bodied. I sure can’t carry one now.”

“Driggs was a blondie?”

“He dyed his yellow curls pitch black back in high school. My suggestion, by the way.”

“Boss, you say the word, I still got the DNA kit in my trunk. What you asked me to get you last year when you turned 32. Then changed your mind. That kit cost me 50 bucks. You can pay me back at your convenience, thank you. We’ll cheek swab you, Hazel, Libby. Send the samples to the lab in the postage-paid mailing envelope. Get the results back in two weeks. But I don’t advise you doing this. You can only know what you don’t know. And you not knowing Hazel’s paternity is making you know what being a real father is all about.”

“Half the time, Benny, no, nearly all the time, I don’t understand what the hell you mean. You put these opposites, these contradictions in one sentence, and I don’t know whether you’re talking profound truth or shallow unreasoning.”
“Reasoning is found in unreasoning, Boss.”

Finn laughed. Benny could always make Finn laugh.

Blessedly, the bowel program had been successful. They’d be able to skip it tomorrow.

“Feel like biking today, Boss?”

“I want it to end, Benny. I want it all to end.”

“It’s got to begin before it can end, Boss. So let’s begin the bike.”

Benny hooked Finn on the spin bike. Electrodes on Finn’s quads and calves shocked his legs into movement for one hour. Then they switched to the arms.

Eventually back in bed, bathed, teeth brushed, nails clipped, nose hairs trimmed, skin inspected for bed sores, penis checked for infection from the catheter, hair combed, Finn was ready for Hazel.

He looked at the clock on the wall over his flat screen TV.

“Where the hell are they, Benny?”

And then Hazel burst into the room. Libby slowly followed. Hazel climbed on his bed. Finn could feel her. It was his great joy, feeling her weight on his paralyzed legs.

She hugged him. He couldn’t hug her back.

She kissed him. He kissed her back.

Libby lifted Finn’s arm and placed his hand on Hazel’s yellow curls.

“Where did these gorgeous yellow curls come from?” Finn knew he was ruining Libby’s kind gesture. He couldn’t help it.

Benny scowled. “Recessive genes, Boss?” He removed Finn’s hand from Hazel’s head to make room for his own. He tousled Hazel’s hair and tapped her nose. “Well, my work here is done. See you tomorrow, folks.” Benny left. To Finn, it felt like oxygen had left the room with him. It was an effort to breathe.

“You’re being silly, Daddy,” Hazel said. “You know where my hair comes from! It grows from my head!”

Finn smiled at his daughter. “Last time I saw such gorgeous yellow curls was before my buddy Driggs dyed his hair black back in junior high.”

Color drained from Libby’s face. “Finn,” she said.

He looked from Hazel to Libby. From his beautiful daughter to his beautiful wife, just turned 30, stuck with C4 quad for a husband. She did not look bored now, Finn thought. It gave him a sick comfort. He still had the power to banish her boredom.

“Tell me, Libby,” he said. “For my birthday present. The truth.”

She trembled. “Haze,” she said. “Tell Daddy what you did in kindergarten today. I’ll be right back.” And she fled.

Now Finn felt the blood drain from his own face. He was rarely left alone with Hazel. What if she fell, or started choking, or crying? He’d be useless.

Hazel scrambled from his bed to the rocking chair and began chatting about the barn she’d finger-painted at the art easel in school, about how she was the only girl who still couldn’t skip—“but I can gallop the fastest, Daddy!”—and how she now had three best friends—Tiff, Alesha, and Kimble.

Libby returned, wheeling something red and silver into the room. She pushed it to the foot of his bed.

Finn looked hard. Blinked.

A keyboard.

“What’s this?” Finn felt dizzy. Was this some sort of cruel joke? Was Libby, whose piano lessons had stopped when she was 12, planning to plunk out Happy Birthday Dear Paralyzed Useless Finn and may there not be many more?

But it was Hazel who ran to the keyboard. It was Hazel who began to play. A sweet melody. She sang as she played. A sweet true voice. The melody was familiar. The words were familiar.

                                         You are the sun
                                         Who heats my heart.
                                         You are the moon
                                         Who lights my dark.
                                         You are the tree
                                         On which I climb
                                         Away from the shadows
                                         Who darken my mind.

It hit him. His poem. A poem he’d written long ago set to a melody he’d composed for his high school sweetheart. Libby.

Hazel began singing the refrain. Other voices joined in. His. And Libby’s.

                                        So don’t don’t don’t ever go away. 
                                        You are the salvation of my day.

 The performance ended. Hazel’s cheeks flushed red.

“Did I sound OK, Daddy?”

Finn couldn’t speak. He nodded.

“Are you surprised? I been learning the piano in secret and practicing in secret to surprise you for your birthday. My piano teacher is so nice, Daddy. She says I’m really good. I learn really fast. I want to be a musician like you, Daddy. My piano teacher says you could write songs for me to learn.”

Finn couldn’t speak. He nodded again. Tears burned his eyes.

“One more thing for your birthday, Daddy. My piano teacher took her favorite Draft Stand song—she says it’s your lushiest ballad—and she made it easier for me to play. I been practicing it every day after school at her house. I can play it almost without no mistakes. I’ll go get the sheet music so I can play it for you now.”

“It’s in the car, Hazel,” Libby said. “But can you frost Daddy’s cake now, too? Everything’s set out on the kitchen table. Then bring the music and cake here.”

Hazel’s eyes widened. “I can frost it by myself? Really? Thanks, Mama! I’ll do a good job! I promise!”

“I’ll be back!” Hazel shouted, and she ran from the room.

Finn listened to her footfalls on the stairs.

“She’s a regular little Mozart,” Libby said. “Her piano teacher said she’s never seen anyone take so quickly to the piano. A prodigy. Like you, Finn.”

Finn nodded. “Like me,” he whispered.

“Finn.” Libby moved to his bedside. She pulled an envelope from the pocket of her jeans. She held it out to him. “I’ve had it for two years, Finn. I haven’t opened it. It’s got the results. A couple of years ago I swabbed your cheek while you were sleeping. It’ll tell you about our little girl. Your daughter.”

Finn felt his heart bounce like a puppy. Your daughter. “So. You’re telling me she’s mine? Absolutely?”

“Oh Finn. I won’t lie to you. I don’t know. It was just that one time with Driggs. I am so so sorry. But it shouldn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter. She is yours. She’ll always be yours. It’s not who has you. It’s who loves you.”

His heart froze. Something dark and green had just strangled the puppy. “You’re quoting Benny now? The man who helps me shit.”

“Quoting Benny? He say that to you? Maybe he was quoting me, Finn.” She flung the envelope on his useless legs. “I know you’re miserable!” she shouted. Tears glittered her eyes “I know you’re in the worst pain, and I wish to God I could help you bear it.”

“The worst pain,” Finn heard himself say, “is knowing that your pain will pass.” Benny, he thought, would be proud of me.

Libby stared at him. She clenched her fists. Her lips trembled.

“You mean death,” she finally said. “Knowing that your pain will pass. Knowing that you’ll die. Because that’s the only way pain will pass. Well then, I’m a member of that club too, Finn. We all are. We all know we’re going to die.”

He looked at the envelope on his legs. If he could’ve moved his legs, he would have kicked the envelope away. “You’ve never opened it,” he said. “Why not?”

“It’s your right to know. Yours and eventually Hazel’s. Not mine.”

She grabbed the envelope, held it up. “Should I open it now, Finn?”

He looked out the glass wall. Hours earlier, the rain had stopped. The gorgeous dying ash tree did not move. Not a leaf, not a branch. The tree could not move without wind. And the wind had died.

“Finn, say the word and I’ll open it and hold the lab report before your eyes. You can read it. You can know the truth.”

Finn watched the gorgeous dying ash tree. It was moving again. He could almost hear the leaves sighing in the breeze. The wind never stayed dead for long.

“Should I, Finn? Libby was crying.

Finn moved his head, one of the few body parts he could still move without help.

“Not today,” he said.

Marie Anderson is a Chicago area married mother of three millennials. Her stories have appeared in over 50 publications, including The Saturday Evening Post, Shotgun Honey, Sunlight Press, and Brilliant Flash Fiction. In 2021, her story "Metaphors," was published by After Dinner Conversation as a standalone on Kindle, and that story still occasionally cracks the top ten in three Amazon Free-Kindle categories, including Young Adult Fiction on Prejudice.