Free Life Happens Next by Terry Trueman Page A

you miss them, Debi. I know what it’s like to want to be with people who love you and not be able to be with them. I’m so sorry your parents had to leave you.”
    And now something really strange happens. Debi reaches down and takes my hand. Her hand is plump, dry, and chapped. Other than the baths Mom gives me, or an occasional pat from Paul or Cindy, hardly anyone ever touches me. I can’t do high fives or shake hands or give hugs, and people usually don’t give them to me. They don’t ever realize that I might like to be touched.
    Debi’s hand feels warm.
    I’m guessing that everyone needs to touch and be touched by others every once in a while.

23
    S aturday morning. Paul, Ally, Cindy, and Tim are taking Rusty for a walk over in Discovery Park, just a couple miles from our house. Needless to say, I am not invited.
    But that’s okay, because Mom is driving Debi and me to McDonald’s—it’s Debi’s reward day. Mom’s always been as good as her word, and when she promised Debi a McDonald’s lunch after the 911 fiasco, she meant it.
    Mom parks our van in a handicapped parking space, right by the front entry to McDonald’s. Debi unbuckles her seat belt and slowly opens the passenger door. She swings her legs out, glancing back at Mom and me. “I like it,” she says. Both Mom and I know what she means by “it.”
    Mom unloads me, wheelchair and all, from the van, and asks Debi, “Can you go ahead of us and hold the door open, please?”
    Debi looks confused. “I … no.”
    Mom says, “That’s okay, Debi, just go on in—we’ll follow you.”
    Debi walks to the door and pulls it open to start to walk through, when she seems to suddenly understand what Mom asked a moment ago. “S-S-S-Swan first,” she says, and holds the door open.
    I can hear the smile in Mom’s voice. “That’s very nice of you, Debi, thank you.”
    Debi says, “Welcome.”
    It’s a little past one o’clock and the restaurant is not very crowded. We get in line behind just one other customer.
    At first my eyes don’t focus on anything nearby. This happens a lot. You could put the most beautiful girl in the world right in front of me in a teensy string bikini—oops, that would be my brother’s girlfriend—never mind. Let’s say you could put the most delicious deluxe bacon double cheeseburger smack-dab, twelve inches in front of my face when I was starving. But if my eyes were focused on something outside the window, like a big piece of driftwood three miles away on Puget Sound, there’d be nothing I could do but wait until my eyes shifted.
    Now my eyes do refocus. I see the counter kids in their McDonald’s uniforms and the cooks behind them by the big grill. Finally I focus on the guy right in front of us in line.
    Even from the back, I recognize him instantly. Long hair, black clothes, and black motorcycle boots. His name is Adam, and my brother almost killed him in our front yard last summer.
    I flash back to that moment: Two bullies picking on me, this big kid Adam and his friend who lit a cigarette lighter under my chin; then Paul attacked them. Blood, gasoline, Paul’s rage, and violence—it’s like it all happened five minutes ago.
    Fear pounds at my temples. Will Adam finish doing to me now what he and his friend started before? Paul isn’t here. There’s no one to stop this kid from hurting me. Mom and Debi can’t do anything. I can only pray that he doesn’t see me, or doesn’t remember that day.
    A girl at the counter brings a tray of food for him and says, “Thanks for coming to McDonald’s. Have a nice day.”
    â€œThanks,” he says. He picks up the tray and turns to go to a table. The instant he sees me, I know that he recognizes me too. He freezes in his tracks. His eyes quickly scan the room, most likely to see if Paul