The Cobalt Wal-Mart parking lot was packed with Saturday shoppers. Samantha parked her Mercedes in one of the very back spaces to avoid any potential parking lot accident: ‘Look at the way some of these people are taking up three spaces!’ she cried. ‘In an enormous pickup truck, no less!’ I unfolded Stella’s wheelchair from the cavernous back area and helped her into it.
The double doors swished open into a wall of gumball machines. Beyond that was the store. The vastness of the place, after the corner delis and economy of city space I’d grown up with, had been remarkably easy to get used to. As soon as we hit the cart corral, Stella struggled to stand up.
‘I’m fine,’ she muttered.
‘No you’re not,’ I said.
‘I’m fine,’ she said again.
‘What do you want me to do with this?’ Samantha looked at the empty wheelchair.
‘Stick it by the carts,’ Stella suggested.
Samantha looked suspiciously at the people ambling through the lobby. The room echoed with beeping cash registers and screaming kids. Something told me Samantha didn’t spend much time in her town’s Wal-Mart. ‘Someone might take it!’ she whispered.
‘We could put it back in the car,’ Stella said.
‘But don’t you need it?’ I asked Stella.
Stella shrugged. ‘I need to start walking more anyway. I’m pretty sure the Jackalope Museum isn’t wheelchair accessible. It’s not much more than a shack.’
I gave her a weary look. ‘We might not be able to go. It depends on how long it takes to get to Cheveyo. He lives in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Near the Amish,’ Stella stage-whispered, sinking into a seat at a snack-bar table. ‘I’m not sure it’s right to be around Amish people when you’re ill.’
‘Where’d you hear that?’ I demanded.
‘Oh, it’s around. It’s everywhere. The Amish people are carcinogenic.’
I thought of the pamphlets I’d gotten in the mail about Cheveyo. Miracle healer, the cover of the first pamphlet said. There sat Cheveyo, a wise, hippie toad in his tie-dyed t-shirt, his face the color of a worn-out saddle. Next to him was a young woman who had cervical cancer. That was how she was described in the caption: Cheveyo with Jane (31, cervical cancer). Cheveyo did something with stones. Or feathers. Animal spirits. Aromatherapy. Peace pipes. No one was very specific about his practices. ‘It’s hard to describe,’ said Jennifer (59, rheumatoid arthritis). ‘It just worked. I felt better immediately,’ said Lori (42, lupus).
‘Cheveyo could really help you,’ I told Stella, drumming my fingers on top of the laminated snack-bar table. ‘He was on Oprah. Remember when we watched it together? How he helped all those people?’
‘I was sleeping.’
‘Maybe she doesn’t want that type of treatment,’ Samantha piped up.
My whole body tensed. ‘She wants to go. We’re going.’
‘Which means I need to practice walking, then.’ Stella pointed vigorously at the wheelchair, as if it was the cause of all the problems.
At that exact moment, a boy next to us decided to fart very loudly. His parents barely noticed and continued eating their hot dogs. Samantha thrust her purse higher onto her shoulder, the disgust on her face apparent. She eyed the wheelchair. ‘I’ll put it back.’ She turned around and wheeled it out of the store, losing control of it for a moment or two, the front wheels lifting off the ground and the seat tilting backwards. I wondered if she’d figure out how to remove the wheels and fold it up, or if she’d just stick the whole thing in the back of her SUV intact.