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Chapter 1

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Chapter 1

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Try as I might, I remember so little about the day of the accident.  According to the hospital’s staff psychiatrist, Dr. Alana Gruber, the human mind can erase frightful memories brought about by episodes of extreme fear or trauma.  She suggested that my recollection of the events surrounding the accident could conceivably emerge from this present fog of forgetfulness, but for now, I have only the vaguest awareness of what happened after stepping out of the airplane.  I clearly remember the deafening roar of the plane’s piston engine, the sudden blast of propellor wash, the electrifying surge of adrenalin coursing through my veins, and the reluctant loosening of my grip on the Cessna 206’s wing strut before the unnerving sensation of tumbling backwards from a dizzying altitude of 11,000 feet. 

 

Here is where my memory of the accident fades.  Witnesses inside the plane and on the ground said my chute opened properly and my descent to earth was by the book until an unforeseen change in the wind, known as a windshear, mercilessly tossed me about the great blue expanse.  Observers said I forcefully struck the ground, though I have no memory of the impact.  I seem to momentarily remember regaining consciousness in the back of an ambulance.  I also recall overhearing a rather heated argument between my father and my mother before slipping back into an unconscious stupor.

 

“And you have no other recollections surrounding the accident?” asked Dr. Gruber while hastily scribbling notes of our conversation.  “No other details?  Nothing else comes to mind?”

 

Unable to conceal my frustration, I shook my head saying,  “No, Doctor.  Nothing else comes to mind.  It’s maddening.  Why can’t I remember more about the accident?”

 

Dr. Gruber sought to assure me saying, “The phenomenon of memory loss is known as dissociation.  Episodes of selected amnesia are common among traumatic accident victims, so don’t fall into the trap of doubting your sanity.  In other words, Mattie, you aren’t crazy, and we won’t be fitting you for a straitjacket.”

 

As Dr. Gruber demonstrated the kind of no-nonsense, let’s-get-directly-to-the-point persona that tends to instinctively earn my trust, her assurance gave me a measure of relief. “In the very least, I can be thankful the accident didn’t scramble my brain.”

 

“To the contrary, I’d say you are a remarkable young woman who will never roll over and play dead because of a physical disability.  The entire hospital staff is rooting for you, Mattie.  Never allow a disability to define who you are.  Got that?”

 

According to the orthopedic surgeon, the spinal injury that occurred when I slammed against the unforgiving terrain resulted in paraplegia. With both legs rendered useless came the dire realization that I would most likely be consigned to a wheelchair. 

 

I was, of course, devastated by the loss of my mobility.  At the risk of stating the obvious, my life would never be the same.  Like others who pursued active lifestyles, I spent much of my free time dancing, swimming, hiking, running, and bicycling.  I was never one to park myself on the sofa while binging on games or movies.  My restless nature had kept me on the go, and now came the stark realization that even simple tasks such as bathing and dressing myself would prove daunting challenges that would tax me both physically and mentally.  No, my life would never be the same, and I was becoming more and more aware of this stark truth, but the prospect of spending my life as a paraplegic seemed almost inconsequential when compared to the dreadful effects this accident was having on my beleaguered father.  My wounds were his wounds. My loss was his loss.  I am convinced he suffered as much as me.

 

Since the accident, I have discovered being a young woman in a wheelchair makes me something of an oddity, but prior to my skydiving mishap, I was already considered a human curiosity because of my higher than average IQ.  Early on, I was labeled a prodigy.  I completed my high school studies at the age of 13 and had earned a bachelors degree in music shortly after my sixteenth birthday.  Much fanfare was made of my accomplishments in the classroom and my seemingly effortless ability to learn, but there were times when I felt like a circus sideshow freak.  “Normal” kids, that is, teenagers with average IQs, were often standoffish and ill at ease in my company while older students treated me with a measure of doubt and condescension.  I often felt strangely out of place and as though I never quite fit in with everyone else, but my father, whom I affectionately call Popsie, and my grandmother, perhaps the grandest of all grandmothers, lavished me with an abundance of love and acceptance.  

 

The skydiving adventure was my mother’s idea.  Della, as she prefers to be called, invited me to her home in Minneapolis to celebrate the completion of my undergraduate studies.  I could sense that Popsie was uneasy about the visit.  He did not trust her judgment.  I think, too, that he was afraid Della’s impulsive nature would have an adverse influence upon me.  Popsie had a right to worry.  Della was prone to frequent episodes of erratic, unconventional behavior.  She tended to associate with the more extremes of society’s fringe element.  Despite her position as a law professor, Della had a lengthy rap sheet, and her behavior was closely monitored by local and federal law enforcement officials. Popsie considered Della, according to his own words, “a mentally unbalanced, wholly irresponsible, acutely unhinged, wild-eyed, fanatical extremist of the worst sort.”  Deep down, he feared some of Della’s unpredictable ways might rub off on me.  Sensing his uneasiness, I assured Popsie there was no reason to fret and that I would return to our home in Dallas safe and sound within a week.  With grave misgivings, he watched me board the plane to Minneapolis.

 

My parents met while attending law school.  Popsie, whose real name is Erikson Abernathy, was a tall, lean, goodlooking young man with a firm, steady voice marked by a slight north Texas accent.  Despite the Texan drawl, Popsie had an extensive, nearly inexhaustible vocabulary and a persuasive means of expressing an idea or making a point.  With his keen mind and uncanny ability to recall facts and figures with utmost accuracy, it was no surprise to learn Popsie had graduated top in his class. 

 

Della lacked Popsie’s depth of character and mental prowess, but while in law school, she was highly regarded as a strikingly beautiful woman with a lively, engaging personality and a fearless, no-holds-barred activist drawn to controversy.  Unlike Popsie, who was guided by an unbending sense of right versus wrong, Della was a staunch pragmatist who believed spurious or questionable actions were justified by their end results.  In Della’s mind, violence was excusable and even laudable if violence was necessary to accomplish a goal.  Likewise, lying was permissible if acts of perjury and false testimony yielded favorable results.  Della’s mantra could be summed up as “by whatever means necessary.”  Her heroes included Karl Marx, Josef Stalin, Mao Zedong, Margaret Sanger, and Louis Farrakhan.  Though I never fully understood her reasoning, I received a greeting card from Della every August 13 commemorating the late Fidel Castro’s birthday.  What can I say that will adequately explain my mother’s curious behavior?  Some people follow actors.  Others have their favorite writers, and then there are those who are drawn to sports figures.  Della’s affections were given over to despots and dictators.

 

Popsie and Della married shortly after he passed the state’s bar examination.  At that time, Della was two years from completing her legal studies.  She would continue school while Popsie launched his career. Because of his sterling academic record, my father fielded dozens of lucrative opportunities from well-established businesses and prestigious law firms across the country; in the end, he chose to work for an international automobile rental concern based in London.  According to Grandma, the British firm was not Popsie’s first choice.  He had hoped to practice constitutional law; however, the automobile rental company offered a substantial compensation package while allowing Popsie and Della to remain in Dallas. 

 

Theirs was hardly a marriage made in heaven; frustrated by Della’s frequent bouts of bizarre behavior, Popsie filed for divorce shortly after my sixth birthday.  As it happened, Della was hired by a rather seedy criminal defense law firm, Doaks and Chumbley, after eventually passing the state bar examination following two failed attempts.  Popsie harbored a dim view of Doaks and Chumbley whom he claimed represented three quarters of Dallas County’s sleaziest pimps, hoods, gangbangers, prostitutes, deadbeat dads, and drug dealers.  While Popsie was in London on business, Della hid a loan shark, whose bond had been revoked, in my bedroom.  Her client, a brawny, hairy, heavily tattooed hulk of a man squeezed himself beneath my bed while Della misdirected several police officers gathered at the front door of our Hillcrest Road home.  The loan shark, known as Big Eddie Two Fingers, was accused of breaking a client’s kneecaps for refusing to repay a sizable debt. In time, the cops gave up on Della and continued their search elsewhere, but Big Eddie Two Fingers passed the night in my canopy bed while I lay huddled with my teddy bear on a makeshift pallet.  The following morning, Della, Big Eddie, and I breakfasted on orange juice, poached eggs, and Belgium waffles.  Later, Della pledged me to absolute secrecy.  I was not to say a word about her harboring Big Eddie Two Fingers during Popsie’s absence, but six-year-olds are not good at keeping secrets.  When Popsie learned that Della had brought a twice convicted loan shark into our home and, more particularly, into my bedroom, he filed for divorce while demanding full custody of me.  By relinquishing her parental rights, Popsie agreed not to press Della for child support payments.  Soon after the divorce was finalized, the Texas Bar Association suspended Della’s license to practice law after she pleaded no contest to charges involving the tampering of evidence at a crime scene, intimidation of a witness, attempted bribery of a sitting judge, and an assault upon a law enforcement official.  Not to be undone by such felonious behavior, Della found greener pastures teaching law in Minnesota.  Like a dexterous cat that always lands on all fours, the university pays Della many times more than the amount she earned as a criminal defense attorney. 

 

Perhaps, as an attempt at making amends for her shortcomings as a parent, Della invited me to spend a week at her posh Minneapolis home.  Rather than treating me to the usual mother and daughter shopping excursions and elegant luncheons, Della introduced me to her newfound love of skydiving.  At the time, she already had twelve successful jumps to her credit, but as for me, I was initially hesitant.  I could think of a dozen or more thrilling pursuits that did not involve the flinging of one’s flesh and bones from a highflying airplane, but after some persuasive coaxing from Della, I nervously agreed to strap on a parachute and climb aboard the single-engine Cessna.  After the accident, the pilot and jumpmaster were cited by the Federal Aviation Agency for criminal negligence.  At sixteen, I was two years shy of the minimum age for skydiving.  After nearly a year of medical treatment and rehabilitation, I have commenced my graduate studies. Though I have come to accept the limitations imposed by this disability, I have vowed to pursue all the joy and happiness my beating heart can contain, but Popsie, poor Popsie, struggles under an avalanche of  hurt and anger.  I doubt if he has had an easy day since the accident, but that won’t keep me from cheering him on.  He thinks he is caring for me, but in truth, I am taking care of him.  Popsie needs me.

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                                    email:  dr.michaelblunk@gmail.com 

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