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"Fully?" I asked. "How can I ever recuperate fully, Grandma?"
She looked away rather than answer. No one seemed capable of coming right out and saying,
"Sorry, you're never going to walk right again. You'll always have this awkward gait, this pronounced limp."
Hours and hours, days and days, weeks and weeks of therapy did little to change it. I was able to move faster afterward, but not eliminate the limp. I thought it made me look like an old lady suffering from arthritis, especially if anyone was looking at me from behind. Almost as an act of acceptance or, rather, an act of retreat, I returned to wearing the clothing I had worn before my seemingly overnight remaking. To my way of thinking, the so-called Granny Clothes my fellow students accused me of wearing were more appropriate for me now.
I know all this further depressed my
grandparents, especially my grandfather. They saw it all to be a great setback, one disappointment piled upon another until the entire foundation for our family would collapse.
I knew that my grandmother blamed my grandfather somewhat for all that had occurred. I overheard them arguing about it one night. She accused him of pushing me too fast perhaps or being too permissive. I didn't know until 1 had overheard their conversation that she had wanted him to convince me to not go to the prom since Craig's parents were so against it.
"It was doomed from the start," she said. "That family was so divided, the poor boy couldn't enjoy himself no matter what he did, and Alice got caught in between. Think of where she'd be today if she hadn't gone. And perhaps that boy would still be alive, too."
I didn't think that was fair. My grandfather was no fortune-teller, and she wasn't totally free of blame either. She had encouraged rue to become social, too. It all made me think that I really was the center of unhappiness in this house. I concluded that no matter what I did, it would always leave a dark, depressing mark on the heart of things. I imagined waking up one morning and finding the words Doomed for Disaster imprinted on my forehead, a different kind of mark of Cain, but one as infamous and devastating,
nevertheless.
During these days and weeks, my grandfather appeared so defeated to me. He walked with more of a stoop, something I had never seen him do, and he was far less talkative, no longer excited about bringing home his legal war stories. Our dinners together became pantomimes, with the only sounds being the clink of dishes and glasses and silverware.
"Aren't you ever going back to your art?" my grandfather asked me one night.
I had taken to spending hours and hours lying on the sofa watching television, soaking myself in someone else's make-believe. Like some elderly lady confined to her small world, I escaped only through the famous boob tube.
"I don't know," I said.
"You haven't been up in the studio since you've come back from the hospital?"
"No. Between going to therapy and resting, I haven't had the time or the desire," I told him.
"Your art could become better therapy," he suggested.
I looked at him. He was so desperate for a glimmer of happiness again, especially for me.
"To tell you the truth, Grandpa, I'm afraid of my art now," I said. I had to tell someone about this new fear, and he was the best one to tell.
"What?" He looked toward the door to be sure my grandmother wasn't hearing this conversation. "Why would you say such a thing?"
"I'm afraid of what I would draw, paint, what would come out of me right now."
"Well, maybe that's a good thing, a good way to get it out of you, Alice. Consider that," he said.
"Like the kind of art therapy mentally disturbed people do in clinics, like what my mother is probably doing?" I asked. It was mean, but I couldn't help it.
He didn't flinch. "If it works for them, it might work for you. You've got to get back out in the world. It's like falling off a bike, Alice. If you don't get right back on, you might not ride again."
"What of it? Where am I going?" I muttered. "Who else cares, anyway?"
"I wish you wouldn't think like that. You have to stop blaming yourself for things. And," he added, lean ing toward me, his eyes almost flaming with the passion of his inner fury, "you've got to stop thinking you bring only bad luck to people. Don't tell me you don't, and don't let anyone ever convince you that you are."
I didn't want to say anything more about it. I especially didn't want to argue with him I hated hurting him more than I hated hurting myself. It was better to be silent, to refer to that all-around perfect way out, the perfect word, the key to escape.
"Okay," I said.
He sat back and another day passed.
And another night. And another week, until finally, I was confident enough with my walking to go out, to take walks on the road, especially our road, a road with little traffic and people watching. In my own way I helped myself grow stronger until, one afternoon, I finally went up to the attic. It was truly like opening the door to another world, the famous escape to Wonderland my grandmother had ironically once hoped I would find.
