Disarmed, Chapter 2

I walk out of the hospital, my arm gleaming darkly in the sun. I can feel it there, as though it were the original appendage. The doctor says that this is not the case; I am feeling the phantom sensations from my hand because my mind has not realized that it is no longer a part of my body. Be that as it may, when I flex my muscles as I would have to make a fist, my fingers bunch obediently together.
The fingers clink metallically as they brush against each other, and scrape harshly when I form a fist. It is an extremely strange feeling. The arm is connected to my nerve system, and through some (very scientific) process, I can feel them touch. It is not as vivid a feeling as before; it’s like touching metal while wearing metal gauntlets. I am told that the sensation in the arm will feel more natural as I grow more used to it. I don’t much care about that. It’s enough that I have a moving, feeling, functioning arm.
I can play baseball again.
Passersby stare curiously at us as we pass, a tiny woman and a tall, slim boy with a metal forearm. Uncomfortable, I tug my shirtsleeve down over it so it’s not as noticeable. My mom notices, but makes no comment. She’s accustomed to the attention—she gets an abundance of it working on her ad campaigns.
We get into the large silver BMW that seems to match my mom perfectly: smooth and sophisticated, though it is a big car which is not really like her at all, but whatever. It comes from one of the aforementioned ad campaigns, which Mom directed. I guess when an ad ends up on the Super Bowl Top Ten, people just get cars. Anyway, it is a big BMW with air-conditioning and spotless leather seats. Unlike some of my friends, I do not speak fluent Car and Driver so I could not tell you exactly what year it was made, how ‘good’ it’s engine is, or any other superfluous information which is overshadowed by the simple fact that, yes, its a car, and yes, it works fine.

Sorry about that. Sometimes I go off on a random tangent so whatever I say sounds like a run-on sentence which it isn’t because I’m saying it and not writing it...I just did it again didn’t I?... Anyway, I will try not to do that because some of the things I say are not really germane to this story. Speaking of which, isn’t ‘germane’ a great word? Meaning to share parents or to be closely akin, but also meaning to be relevant to a situation. Obviously the word as I just used it is used with the latter definition, because that definition is most germane to the context of the sentence. I guess what this paragraph is really saying is that a) I am not actually sorry for straying from the topic, b) I will probably do it again, and c) I can because it’s my story about an arm that was mine and also about an arm that may or may not be mine and the effect that has on my life. So if you’re thinking about saying something that isn’t along the lines of, “You’re completely right, Jake! It is your story and you can (and should) tell it however you want to!”, shut it. Now, back to the story...

The car is silent as Mom un-parks the car and starts driving down the streets, cutting through traffic as easily as an Olympic diver slices into the water. It’s not an awkward silence, like we both want to talk but having nothing to say. It’s a comfortable silence; she knows I need to think before I talk and is respecting that. She turns the radio on and starts headbobbing to Nickelback, not a lot of headbobbing, but just a slight repetitive nod, perfectly in time with the music.
I think about a lot of things while we drive. I think about how those girls parents must feel about being a part of the song that is also about having sex with their daughter. I think about the baseball game the night of the accident. The Red Sox were playing the Yankees. I heard later that it was a shutout for the Red Sox 9-0. They won, but I lost. Most of all, I think about my arm.
I think about how it kind of drags on my left side, pulling me down. The physical therapist says it will only take a few weeks until my left side muscles will catch up to my right, then I will have to start exercising my right side to keep up. That’s fine. I already do that for baseball anyways.
I think about how it looks, flowing seamlessly from soft living tissue to hard black metal. It’s got a curvy, futuristic look to it, like something out of a science fiction novel. Under the right circumstances, it could even be beautiful. I wish I could cover it up. Did you ever see that old movie, I, Robot? Will Smith was in it and he had a prosthetic arm. In the movie, he could spray the arm so it looked like real skin. I wish I could do that with mine.
I move the fingers, marveling at the dexterity with which they maneuver. Experimentally, I form a fist, and extend the middle finger. My mom slaps my arm lightly, but can’t contain a smile. Some things never change. I unclench the hand. It’s as easy as a thought, and almost as fast. Faster, in fact, than anything my old hand had ever done. It’s a disturbing thought. Is this change in me actually an improvement? I don’t think about it that way. I used to feel satisfaction at flexing my forearm, watching the muscles bunch and the veins bulge out. It was something of a contest for the team, each person trying to outdo the other. We would all flex, and whoever had the most veins popped out would win. It’s funny that I will always have half the score of the others from now on. I can still count the veins in my right arm, but the left has no veins to speak of, only a smooth, unmarred surface, unchanging.
I’m starting to recognize the scenery passing by the windows. We’re almost home now. We drive wordlessly past the diner, its shiny windows gleaming in the setting sun. As we are leaving the town and moving into the residential plots Mom speaks for the first time, “You okay?”
I think about the questions for a while. I don’t know if I’m okay. I don’t know if I will be. I have no idea how I feel about the arm yet. “Yeah,” I tell her. “I’m fine.”