Heaven, Man, Earth

Tom and Lisa were alone in the plush solarium when Kathy Sands came striding in. "Hot off the press," she said, thrusting a brochure in Tom's face. He took it without a smile and set it on his lap. On the home stretch of Rehab now, it was becoming harder to play the good patient - and it didn't help that Kathy, the curriculum czar who ought to know better, was towering over him, the folds of her maroon skirt still splashing against his wheels, the smell of her favorite snack (overripe clementines) filling the scant air between them.

For a moment neither of them moved. Lisa, on the green velvet couch adjacent to his chair, had her fingers laced together as if in prayer. Tom experimented, first touching the brochure, then lifting it two inches . . . four inches . . . waiting for Kathy to step back and sit. But she had turned her head toward Lisa - perhaps inquiring with her eyebrows about his foul mood.

"You're in my light," he said finally, though there was light everywhere.

Kathy retreated a yard but remained standing, her skirt swishing anew. He made a big noisy show of opening the brochure, then brought it to his nose. Fresh ink, all right. With a touch of fermented citrus.

For Level III Rehab alone, there were fourteen ridiculous courses from which he was to select three to accompany the ongoing vocational counseling and group therapy.

"How shall I decide!" Tom said, sighing lavishly, then shaking his head and closing his eyes.

Lisa shifted, reddened, tightened. Then, as she often did when embarrassed or mad, she removed the scrunchy thing holding her tidy ponytail, put it around her wrist, then gathered her hair again.

Just as well, Tom thought. She was finally catching on. No simple Mr. Nice Guy anymore, he'd changed on the inside too.

How shall I decide!

He squeezed his eyes tight against the feeling that wouldn't leave: This was as rehabilitated as he would ever be.

"Tom?" Lisa said gently, startling him.

His eyes slid past hers to the cheery quilt above the couch.

"I know," he said with another sigh. "I ought to feel grateful. Grateful I'm still alive, and half of me works, and this, the Northeast's classiest, most PC rehab center just happens to be near Hartford, and my old man's insurance covers most of it." He swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat remained. "But really, my dears." He brandished the brochure. "If you had to choose between" he searched the list, "between 'Wheelchair Basketball,' 'Jewelry-Making,' and, and 'Flower Arranging!' wouldn't you be just beside yourself?"

The brochure slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. A poor finale. He caught Kathy shooting Lisa the silent command not to pick it up.

"You don't have to decide, Mr. Pellegrino," Kathy said, her voice all witchy sweetness. "That's three, you can take them all."

"Oh, but I do," he persisted as her booted feet headed for the door. "Because I'm already set on," he lowered his hand, reached down for the brochure, sped down the list. "On 'The Politics of Disability' and 'New Paths To Sexual Intimacy.'"

He still didn't look at Lisa, but sensed her perking up. Kathy turned back, her head like an owl's, revolving too far. "In that case," she said, "knowing you, Mr. Pellegrino, I'd go for the basketball."

"You mean the wheelchair basketball."

"Wheelchair basketball," she repeated, before turning away again.

"Before you leave . . ." He hadn't meant to sound so desperate. "Just tell me one thing."

He saw her flash Lisa a self-satisfied grin.

"Why don't they call it Wheelchair Jewelry Making? Why don't they call it Wheelchair Flower Arranging? Why don't they put fucking 'Wheelchair,'" he grabbed hold of his own wheels and tipped back for emphasis, "before all twelve fucking choices?"

"That's a worthy suggestion, Mr. Pellegrino. I'll bring it up at...