MY ELBOW BUMPS THE white plastic edges of my RV shower. I’m leaning against the narrow wall, my left stub of a leg resting on a lower built-in shelf to keep me firmly upright. It’s a bitch to bathe. It was even worse before I installed the handheld shower head so I could wet my back without struggling to turn around.

The hot water courses down my body, washing away the grit from the bender, and soothing the soreness in my joints from sleeping on stairs. I’m not sure what possessed me to buy a bottle of liquor from the jazz bar.

I’m such a light-weight these days. With all the pills I’m popping, it’s a miracle I didn’t kill myself. At least I didn’t get full-on sloshed until I got back to the driveway with my bottle. I don’t know how long I sat in my jeep, nursing the whiskey bottle and listening to my favorite music from high school. That last damn song reminded me of a backseat and the first girl I loved. Dani. She’d been the girl I thought I’d marry.

Our junior year, I caught her running around with somebody else. And the recruiter caught me a couple days later. It’s been twenty years. I wonder where she’s gone sometimes. I’ve had my share, but I’ve never wanted to propose to anyone. I don’t trust love.

I vaguely recall stumbling into the mansion, expecting to find comfort inside and then cursing at my mistake. After that, things get fuzzy. There’s a pale, dark haired woman with blue-streaked, silver eyes, stroking my face. I stare at her lips. I don’t remember the words she said, but I recall watching her lips move, picturing them on mine, on my...

Scrubbing my hand across my face, I ignore my body’s reaction. I need a woman, but I can’t give a relationship what it requires. That leaves me with a rock and hard place equation. I could pay for it, pay for someone to overlook my incomplete body and give me release. That isn’t my way though. Never has been.

I think about Dani again. I place her face across the beautiful hallucination.

I’d whispered, “Please,” last night and then she’d held my hand until I’d fallen asleep. It had held my hand. Just imagination. I scratch my head. Maybe I should give the docs a call. I’ve never held hands with my hallucinations before. I don’t even know who she is; her face isn’t one I’ve seen before, so she isn’t a memory dredged up from the past. I guess I’ve leveled up on the crazy meter.

I check my watch. I’ll be out of water in another seven minutes. The trailer has a ten-gallon water heater that doesn’t take long to empty, and the fresh water tank won’t be long behind that. I’m glad the water company comes out today. The yard hose will be easy to connect to the spigot once they’ve gotten it going. It might not make more hot water, but it’ll be nice not have to keep such a tight rein on my fresh water use.

I push the imagined woman from my mind and squeeze musky-scented shampoo into my palm. When I’m done cleaning, I don’t bother with a towel. I just move from the shower to the bed in a one-legged, graceless hop. I fall against the crumpled comforter and faded sheets. I know I am soaking them. I have no will to care.

Part of me wants her to be real. Get dressed. Walk into the rundown house. See her eyes and ebony hair. I’m desperate in my need for intimacy. Yet I know, if faced with the chance, I’d not be able to let the darkness go.

I don’t mean to fall asleep; I’ve only just awoken. Not even an hour ago. But I am tired, still so tired. And it has nothing to do with the hangover. I sleep fitfully. Shadows interrupted by vivid dreamscapes.

When my eyes finally reopen, the light streaming in through the plastic blinds is lazy. It wafts through the room without purpose. Not morning rays, meant to rise and shine, but late afternoon sun ribbons, basking the world in glow but not demanding anything in return. I stare at the dust motes dancing with the ribbons. Their gracefulness brings her to my mind again. Her. The figment of my imagination. The ghostly girl with the night-dark eyes.

“Something’s got me really fucked up.” I murmur to myself, pulling my body to a seated position. As I do, my hand brushes the nub of my leg. It isn’t smooth and clean. It’s a warped lumpy thing, folds of skins pulled and yanked and sewn over ruined bone. The doctors and nurses warned me that a cleaner amputation would have made things easier. No matter what sleeve they gave me, no matter how well they fit it, I’d still be uncomfortable.

I rub my hands across the bed. The blanket and sheets I’d been curled against are only slightly damp. No need to change them. I shimmy into a pair of shorts and pull an ARMY t-shirt over my head.

My prosthetic is near the shower, leaning at attention against the faded paneling. The silicon sleeve and thick sock that must come first are thrown against the floor unceremoniously. You’d think by now I’d learn to place everything in easy reach to avoid unnecessary struggling. Using the small wall-mounted lamp, I steady myself and come upright on my good leg. I leave my anchor and jump the few feet.

I nearly fall as I bend over to gather up the items that will make me a man again. It’s harder to make my way back to the bed to sit down, a balancing act. The mattress makes a whooshing sound under me. Turning on the light, I examine my amputation carefully. The scarring is still the pearlescent white of the not-quite healed. The heat rash that had plagued me on the move down—too much sitting and walking, not enough resting—was fading quickly. I leaned back across the bed and pulled the medicated cream and talcum powder out of the single drawer of the bedside table.

I rub the medicinal ointment on first, work it until it sinks into the skin leaving no oily residue behind. And then the powder, liberal amounts to help the thick silicon liner slide on. When I’d first learned how to put it on, a well-meaning therapist had cracked a joke about how it was like rolling on a condom. I hadn’t found the humor in that. Now I can see it. I still don’t laugh though. Maybe someday I will.

I fold the sleeve inside out until the umbrella is fully revealed. Cupping my leg against the firm bottom of the liner, I begin to roll upwards. The soft gel-like consistency of the material is cool against my skin. It compresses my thigh as it slowly covers my leg. Next the sock, another covering to obscure my shortened, unattractive leg.

The fiberglass upper shell of the prosthetic is a dull cream. The last nurse I’d had before release, an older woman with wiry hair and throwback cat eye glasses, had lamented the basic leg I’d had to leave the rehab center with. I’d already gone through two sockets, but the VA was slow. A snail could rival the speed of that establishment getting vets what they need. I nearly smile, thinking of the nurse and her Wisconsin accent. She’d offered to keep me on her prayer list and hoped I’d receive the upgraded leg quickly. I’d smiled and thanked her. Held my tongue when I’d wanted to tell her I wasn’t worth praying for.

Positioning the casing of the prosthetic under my now-sleeved and socked stub, I slide into it until the metal pin at the base of the sleeve clicks into the leg mechanism. My boot is still laced onto the mannequin-like foot. I can’t remember the last time I switched shoes. It just seemed like another step in the already-long process. I missed sandals though. When I was a kid, my foster mom couldn’t keep me in shoes. I love the grass between my toes.

Only five of my toes would ever feel that sensation again.

“Damnit.” My hands are tensely fisted, and I slam them down, each hitting the corresponding leg. My good leg jumps a little, the knee reacting to the force. My other leg stays motionless. A dead thing. That sight does nothing to improve my outlook today.

I’ve got to do something. Work my hands so my mind will leave me the fuck alone. Yet, I can’t really touch anything until the historical society comes and I get approval for my restoration plans. They’re all drawn up, neat and pretty. I’ve spent every waking hour since putting in the initial offer studying the time period and contacting restoration companies for advice. I’m ready. I just need a signature to give me the go ahead. I dropped off the plans as soon as the house was mine, keys in hand. They said give it a week. It took me two months to manage the move. I still hadn’t heard anything. When I’d called on the drive down, they’d said a few more days.

A week. A few days. I am so damn ready to move forward.

Still, there must be something I can accomplish.

My mind made up to clean the first-floor bathroom, I make my way out of the camper. As I pass the counter that plays kitchen and desk, I notice the coffee pot is on. There’s barely any liquid left, the heat evaporating the liquid. I don’t remember making coffee. Jesus, how long had it been on?

The glass carafe is hot to the touch. I turn the machine off, the red light fades quickly to black. I’m hallucinating. Forgetting shit. Passing out on stairs. Buying this property, coming to New Orleans. This was supposed to make it easier. Not harder.

There are clouds in the sky, hiding the sun. I’d been wrong. It wasn’t afternoon light dancing in the camper bedroom. I could see now, where the glow was strongest beneath the thick gray in the sky. It was still morning. Late morning, but still morning. I had not slept and wasted so much time after all.

Opening an outer storage compartment to the right of the camper’s door, I retrieve the cleaning supplies. There’s not enough, not nearly enough to make a dent in the dust and filth that has settled in the bathroom over years of neglect. It’s a start though. I’ll venture out and buy new supplies tomorrow. Or maybe, by some stroke of luck, I’ll get the call saying tomorrow the little man with the little clipboard will arrive. He’ll take my plans. I’ll get approval. And this journey can really start.

As I walk towards the house, my eyes are being called to the second floor. I fight the urge. It’s my brain again, playing tricks on me, making shadows appear where there aren’t any.