Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO SURVIVED HIS OWN FUNERAL
Desmond Gallagher had been thirty-nine when the explosion changed his life.
He was forty now.
Six months earlier, he'd been leaving a charity auction at the Chicago Cultural Center when his armored SUV exploded in a parking structure.
His driver died.
Two security officers were injured.
Desmond survived with a spinal cord injury, extensive burns, and injuries to his left shoulder.
Doctors had told him the damage to his spinal cord was incomplete.
There was some possibility of neurological improvement.
But nobody could promise he would walk again.
Desmond hated uncertainty.
He hated dependence more.
And he hated the fact that the explosion had left him unable to control his own body.
By the end of my second week, I'd learned that his anger had a pattern.
He was cruelest when he felt helpless.
He snapped at Frankie when his chair got stuck.
He dismissed physical therapists when exercises exposed his weakness.
And he refused to let anyone see him struggle during transfers.
One afternoon, I found him staring at the staircase.
"What are you thinking?"
He didn't look at me.
"That I used to take those steps two at a time."
I stood beside him.
"Do you want to go upstairs?"
His jaw tightened.
"Don't be ridiculous."
"There's an elevator."
"I know there's an elevator."
"Then what's the problem?"
He looked at me.
"The problem is that I remember who I was."
I studied him.
"Maybe you remember what you could do."
He turned.
"What's the difference?"
"Quite a lot."
He stared at me.
I continued.
"You were a man before the accident. You're still a man now. The stairs don't get to decide that."
His expression changed.
For a moment, he looked almost young.
Then he glanced away.
"You're irritating."
"I've been told."
That evening, Desmond agreed to a rehabilitation consultation.
Not because I demanded it.
Because I asked him what he wanted to be able to do.
He gave me three answers.
"Transfer without assistance."
"Sleep through the night."
"And get out of this house."
I wrote them down.
"Those are goals we can work toward."
He watched me.
"You don't think I should be trying to walk?"
"That's something to discuss with your rehabilitation team. But you don't have to put your entire life on hold waiting for it."
He looked at the paper for a long time.
Then nodded.
The next morning, Frankie entered the therapy room carrying a photograph.
"Boss. We identified the man from the warehouse."
Desmond looked up.
"Who?"
Frankie placed the photograph on the table.
A middle-aged man with a scar beneath his left eye.
Desmond's face went pale.
"That's impossible."
I looked between them.
"Who is he?"
Desmond whispered, "My brother."
I stared.
"I thought your brother was dead."
Frankie nodded grimly.
"So did everyone."
Desmond's fingers tightened around the armrest.
"My brother died twelve years ago."
May you like
Then he looked at the photograph again.
"At least, that's what I was told."
