A Night's Adventure

by Jane Kraemer

“The dumb alarm keeps going off! How many times do I have to

listen to that infernal thing?!” I think right before I smack the snooze

button. The clock’s long, glowing finger points at number eleven. I

have five more minutes. Peering off across the blackness, I hunt for the

unlocked door. “She’s not here yet. Good.” I roll to the side and clamp

my eyes shut. “Five more minutes…”

In the unconscious realm, I find a young girl huddled beneath a

bright light. She is diligently writing, but I can’t make out her words. I

sit behind her in the dark, waiting to learn her story, to understand how

she appeared in my dorm room. Then, I catch my eye on the postcards,

perfectly taped to the shelf above her. The wheelchair bound girl fades

away. A new, independent woman runs the streets of Paris, hunting for

a corner to hide in. She flies past the police and into the shadows. I can

hear her heart pound with excitement.

“It’s time to wake up…” The dream blurs from my vision. I feel Mai

Allyn’s warmth as she rubs my hand with delicacy. What curiously dark

eyes she has and a simple smile. Gently, she speaks, “Good morning,

girly.” I stroke the goobers out of my eyes. “Morning already?” She

nods and then wanders around under the covers, pulling out my legs and

embracing my flimsy body into a sitting position. I am careful not to lose

my balance, nor to capsize to the floor. We are ready for the transfer.

Up, swing, and plop into the wheelchair—now, on to another day.

Eight years ago, I was diagnosed with a disease called Friedreich’s

Ataxia (weird name—it doesn’t even sound like me), and I grew up with

it, developing the symptoms with each day. While living at college, I

hire students around campus to help me during mornings and evenings.

The State of Michigan pays, and happily I have found enough friends

to employ. However, during the day, I fight to reach books, to reach

the light switch, and to transfer seats, especially between my power and

manual wheelchairs. I knock on doors across the hall or holler to my

suitemates. Neighbors will not abandon me even if they don’t feel up to

the challenge.

This morning, like me, Mai is not entirely awake. She is a blunder!

She dropped my toothbrush two times, grabbed mismatching socks, and

handed me the deodorant instead of the water! “You’re fired!” I spat.

She squealed. “I am not fired! You’re just a big toe!” What a dork! I

mean really, a toe?! I laughed. She smiled, snatched the deodorant from

me, coolly turned around, and gracefully returned with my water.

I look up to Mai. We are connected not just by friendship. Her

mother had Friedreich’s Ataxia, my disease. I have never met anybody

with my disease; it is rare within itself. Maybe I am destined to have

Mai as a sister. “Thank you, Mai. I had a lovely morning with you,”

I proclaim in a sarcastic tone. “You’re welcome, gorgeous!” What

sarcasm she uses! “Have a wonderful day, Jane!” She holds her arms

out, expecting a hug. What the heck? I decide to give her one. Then,

after a firm glance, I speed away.

The rest of the day passes with gloom. After lunch, my forehead

begins to burn with fire. My palms leave moisture on all that I touch.

Still, I roll into classes, copy as many notes as possible, and listen as

the pain wraps snugly around my brain. Then, on the way back to my

dormitory, I struggle through the snow. “What is the use of fighting?”

I can barely keep my eyes open. Soon, my power wheelchair swerves

into a snow bank. “Oh no! I’m stuck!” Tears spill from their dwelling.