Free Slave to the Rhythm by Jane Harvey-Berrick Page B

landscape rose up to meet me. Dust and sand with small patches of green made way for straight roads and then blocks of high rises. The background of mountains was ghostly and insubstantial in the heat haze.
    From my small window to the world, I could see the Pyramid Hotel glittering in the harsh sunlight, a reminder of the desert city’s true purpose.
    Las Vegas.
    The name alone brought a colorful host of expectations, mixed with drama and Hollywood glitz, and maybe a little darkness, memories of movies glamorizing the darker, grittier aspects.
    These days, it was marketed as a family-friendly resort, and I was looking forward to spa treatments and lounging by the pool with my friends, taking in a couple of shows and yes, spending a few dollars on the slot machines.
    I was excited to see Jo and Vanessa again, but weary too, from worrying, as much as the journey itself, and I still wasn’t in my room. An anxious knot started to tie itself in my stomach: would the assistance I’d organized for the transfer be there? Had my hotel really changed the reservation? Was the whole weekend the mistake Collin had described?
    “We are now making our final descent to Las Vegas McCarran International Airport.”
    Mistake or not, I was about to find out.
    Once the plane landed with a jarring bump, passengers were leaping out of their seats, rummaging through the overhead compartments and huffing impatiently until the fuselage doors opened.
    I watched quietly, waiting until I was the only one left in the cabin. Usually people with wheelchairs de-board first, but since I’d requested a window seat, it was easier to wait until everyone else had gone.
    A steward arrived with the airline’s lightweight chair to transfer me to the arrivals terminal and reunite me with my stout, black, old faithful wheelchair.
    This was the part I was dreading. I moved slowly, grimacing as my joints protested against the movement, flinching when my feet touched the ground.
    “Can I help you?” asked the steward, looking askance at my slow and arduous progress from my seat to the wheelchair.
    “No, it’s better if I do it,” I said tightly, lips compressed against the pain. “Thank you.”
    Flipping up the armrests, I shuffled my backside awkwardly from seat to seat, arms trembling as they took my weight. Then I let out a gasp and a sigh of contentment as I lurched into the chair.
    The steward looked as relieved as I did, and we shared a conspiratorial smile.
    “Welcome to Las Vegas!”

    There are two different expressions people have when they see someone in a wheelchair: pity or distaste.
    A small minority, tiny, in fact, treat me just like anyone else: neither more nor less concerned.
    And then there are the old friends who have long stopped seeing the wheelchair, and see the person.
    “Laney!”
    Vanessa’s shrieks turned heads across the airport’s terminal, and she hobbled toward me, weighed down by an enormous suitcase and five-inch heels.
    “Oh my God! Are those Louboutins! I’m so proud of you!” Vanessa cried, hugging the ever-living crap out of me, making me laugh as I winced. “And how come you’re in Old Ironside?” she asked, kicking my wheel.
    “No idea,” I grimaced. “One of those things.”
    “Will it stop you drinking?” Vanessa asked, cutting to the chase.
    I laughed. “That’s a hell no!”
    “Thank God! We so need to have some fun!”
    Well, I wasn’t supposed to mix alcohol and meds, but this weekend was about letting go and relaxing. I’d have one or two drinks, take it easy and be careful. Mostly.
    Being drunk in a wheelchair wasn’t something I particularly wanted to relive, although the memory made me smile.
    Vanessa was obviously thinking the same thing.
    “I’ll try not to push you into a fountain this time.”
    I grinned at her.
    “Maybe I should get a seatbelt on this thing.”
    “I could tie you in,” Vanessa said with a wink.
    “You getting kinky on me, Ness?”
    “Nah, you’re not my type.