The Baby They Swapped, The Girl They Broke

My brother kicks my prosthetic leg every time he gets angry.

I've taken a lot of falls because of it, but this time was the worst. My shoulder felt like it had split down the middle.

I didn't cry, didn't make a scene. I only said I wanted to go to the hospital, and that was enough to set my parents off.

"So he gave it a couple of kicks. What's the big deal? It's just a fake leg. It can't feel anything anyway."

"Your brother's got a temper. Bottling it up isn't good for his health. Letting him take it out on you is just doing your duty as his older sister."

I said, very quietly,

"But he's only two minutes younger than me."

"Listen to yourself. Two minutes younger, and suddenly he's not your brother?"

"Don't forget you're a cripple. You'll be a burden your whole life. Someday you'll be relying on your brother to look after you."

Dad picked up the prosthetic and tossed it onto me without a second look.

"See? It's perfectly fine. Two more kicks won't break it."

Mom added from the side, "And if it does break, you just get it fixed."

They seemed to have forgotten I was once a healthy child too.

I lost this leg saving my brother.

Ever since, even leaving the house is a struggle.

This time, I want to leave.

Stop being a burden to this family. Go somewhere with open sky and wind.

Charles Finch kicked me today because I was trying to surprise him.

I'd asked him,

"Charlie, do you want to go to West Coast University or Ashford University?"

My scores could get me into Coastal University here at home, and I'd also been invited by Ashford University, two thousand miles away.

Both offered four years of free tuition, plus a scholarship.

They knew my brother's scores were poor, and that my leg made things hard for me, so both schools had offered to bend their admission rules for him, so the two of us could support each other.

But my brother thought I was mocking him for barely scraping four hundred, and he stomped down hard on my prosthetic.

I bit down against the pain, picked the leg up, and fitted it back on.

Since they wouldn't let me go to the hospital, I'd make do with a painkiller.

I dragged myself over to the TV stand, only to find the cardboard box where I kept my medicine was gone.

I searched the whole living room with everything I had. Nothing.

I turned to look at my mother in the kitchen.

"Mom, where's the medicine I keep here?"

She was chopping scallions, not even lifting her head.

"What medicine? There's too much junk piling up in this house. Your dad and I cleaned yesterday. Threw out anything we didn't need."

I leaned against the wall, shaking all over.

"That was all my medicine."

Not junk.

Her knife paused for a beat, then went on chopping.

"Then why didn't you put it away properly? Leaving it lying everywhere, so your brother can't even find his own things!"

I looked toward what used to be the storage room, the room that was now mine, and my mouth went bitter.

It wasn't that I wanted it lying around.

The storage room faced west and got the afternoon heat, no place to keep medicine. The living room was all I had.

I shuffled forward, meaning to dig through the trash can, when my brother suddenly said,

"Don't bother. It's already been taken out to the dumpster."

I ignored the smugness in his eyes and asked my mother.

"Then... Mom, could you give me fifty dollars? I'll have a courier bring a box of painkillers."

She finally turned to glance at me, the cleaver still raised in her hand.

"Can you stop being so dramatic all day long? Your fake leg got kicked a couple times. Is that really worth taking painkillers over? Or is this just your roundabout way of squeezing money out of me?"

"I honestly never knew you were this scheming! You have no idea how hard your dad and I work for that money!"

"Besides, it's a good thing that medicine's gone! All drugs are part poison. Taking too much is bad for you!"

She turned her back, the cleaver coming down on the board, thunk, thunk, thunk.

I stood in the living room, looking around, and it hit me all at once that there was nothing left in this house that had anything to do with me.

The family photo of the four of us that used to hang in the living room had been swapped, at some point, for one of just Mom, Dad, and my brother.

The trophy I won in middle school for first place in the city's eight-hundred-meter for girls, along with the framed photo of me running, was gone too.

Everything that proved I'd once been whole, they'd thrown out as junk.

It was my shoulder that throbbed, but it felt like something was stabbing my heart, over and over.

My brother took a call and shouted to Mom,

"Mom, I'm treating my friends to a birthday party at a karaoke bar tonight. Give me some cash."

Mom set the cleaver down at once and fished her phone out of her apron.

"How much?"

He was still thinking about the right amount when she'd already wired him five thousand.

"Book that new place, the one with the nice atmosphere. Don't let your friends think this family's cheap! Did you order the cake? Remember to tell them ahead of time you want real cream."

"Get the deluxe private room, and pick up some fruit and drinks too..."

She stood there jabbing at the screen, chattering out instructions, as if she'd completely forgotten today was my birthday too.

I understood. The me I was now wasn't even worth fifty dollars anymore.

My brother shot me a triumphant grin, then sank back into the couch to play his games.

I pulled my eyes away and replied to the invitation from Ashford University, two thousand miles off.

I'd be glad to attend your school! On one condition: don't bend the admission rules for my brother!

When Ashford University got my reply, they actually added another twenty thousand to my scholarship.

That twenty thousand made my shoulder hurt a little less.

I put my phone away, slowly got to my feet, and started toward my room.

I'd taken barely two steps when Mom called out to stop me.

"Where do you think you're going? Dinner's almost ready."

She carried out a bowl of birthday noodles and set it down in front of my brother.

A fried egg sat on top, chopped scallions sprinkled evenly, steam still rising off it.

Something pulled me around, and I found myself moving to the table.

My father suddenly walked toward me holding two gift boxes, one big and one small.

The big one went to my brother.

"Happy birthday, son."

"Limited-edition sneakers. Had someone bring them in for me."

Charles ripped it open, took one look, and grinned so wide his eyes disappeared.

"Thanks, Dad! But stop spending so much. My shoe rack's already about to overflow!"

"Don't worry about it. I'll just have a bigger rack built, just for you!"

I didn't have a decent room of my own, but my brother had a whole room set aside for his prized sneakers and figurines.

I swallowed the bitterness and opened my box.

Inside was a single sheet of paper. A job offer from a nearby factory, willing to take on a cripple like me.

My father patted my shoulder and said, in that heavy, earnest tone of his,

"Vicky, I pulled some strings and found you a job. Only four hours a day."

"Your brother will provide for you later, of course, but you can't just be dead weight."

Not one of them asked what score I'd gotten. They'd already mapped out the rest of my life.

Without waiting for my answer, my father sat down at the head of the table.

My mother sat too, ladling out a bowl of soup for each of them.

Three sets of bowls and chopsticks were laid out on the table.

Same as always. None for me.

Every dish was something Charles liked, all of it spicy, and I couldn't eat spicy food.

I stood where I was and laughed at myself, laughed at what I'd even been hoping for.

Today was my birthday too.

I was born two minutes before Charles, so from the time I was small, my parents taught me:

"Vicky, you're the older one. You yield to your brother. You look after your brother."

I took those words as gospel. I protected Charles until I'd lost a leg doing it.

And I yielded to him for eighteen years.

Yielded up my birthday noodles, my birthday cake.

For as long as I can remember, all I got on my birthday was the leftover noodle broth Charles didn't finish.

My parents always cut him the biggest slice first, and I only got cake the next day, once he'd decided he was sick of it and it had already gone stale.

This year was no different.

No one remembered me.

My mother looked up, saw me still standing there, and said impatiently,

"What are you standing around for? Sit down and eat."

I looked at those three place settings, and for the first time I said out loud the thing everyone had always taken for granted.

"There's no place for me."

My mother went still for a second, her face darkening.

"Go get some from the kitchen yourself. You lost one leg, that doesn't mean I'm going to spoon-feed you at the table every single day. You're shut in the house from morning to night, you could use the exercise!"

Everything she said was always for my own good, always beyond reproach.

But I was the only one who understood, deep down, that in all that concern there wasn't a trace of love.

"I'm not hungry. You all eat."

I turned and started shuffling toward my room.

I'd only taken two steps when my father's shout came from behind me.

"Vicky, your mother worked hard to make you this dinner for your birthday, and you won't eat it? What's that supposed to mean?"

I paused, didn't turn around, and said calmly,

"I already told you. I'm not hungry."

My mother slammed down her chopsticks and started sighing.

"So you lost a leg, but you've still got hands, haven't you? You're going to sulk and refuse to eat just because I won't dish it up for you?"

"After today, you'll be eighteen, and you still expect me to do everything for you? By the law abroad, once you turn eighteen you go out and earn your own keep!"

"It's only because your father and I feel for you that we still keep you fed and cared for, day in and day out!"

Her voice grew thicker and thicker with tears.

By the time she finished that last line about keeping me cared for, her face was wet with them.

And that was the moment she finally remembered it was my birthday.

With my back to the table, I curved my lips.

"You're right. From now on, I'll earn my own living."

I was going to Ashford University, the school everyone dreamed of, not spending my life bolting screws on an assembly line.

The words had barely left my mouth when a rush of footsteps came charging up behind me.

Charles's foot slammed down on my prosthetic leg.

"How can you be so ungrateful, Vicky?"

He stood behind me, his voice climbing higher and higher.

"Today's our birthday, and it's the day Mom suffered to bring us into the world! How can you upset her like this?"

"You know perfectly well we'd never let a cripple like you go out and earn money. We'll take care of you your whole life. And you go and spout that garbage about supporting yourself? You want the whole neighborhood pointing fingers at Mom and Dad behind their backs?"

My eyes stayed on that job offer.

Before I could say a word, my brother stomped down on my prosthetic again.

"Dad went begging to everyone he knew just so you wouldn't fall out of step with the rest of the world, and now the job's beneath you?"

The prosthetic wrenched sideways, and my stump twisted with it into a sickening angle.

The pain blacked out my vision. I dropped into a chair, reaching to get the prosthetic off.

By the time I finally worked it loose, the stump underneath was a wash of red.

My strength gave out, and the prosthetic slipped from my grip and hit the floor with a jarring clatter.

My father suddenly brought his hand down hard on the table.

The bowls and chopsticks jumped.

"Victoria, what do you think you're doing!"

He pointed at me and roared,

"You disrespect your mother, you turn up your nose at the job I found you, and now your brother can't even say a word to you? You rip off your leg and throw it on the floor. You looking to bring the roof down?"

I tried to speak, but the pain in my shoulder wouldn't let me breathe.

My mother rushed to hold my father back, crying as she spoke.

"Enough, enough, this child hasn't been herself since she lost the leg..."

"She took the prosthetic off on purpose, just to make us feel guilty..."

Before she finished.

She raised her hand and slapped herself twice across the face.

Then she looked at me, and said each word slowly and deliberately,

"Mom shouldn't have scolded you just now. Mom's sorry. If you don't want the job, you don't have to take it. That's settled, isn't it?"

"Are you satisfied now?"

"If you're not, I'll go dish up your rice right now and kneel here and feed it to you!"

And then she turned and went to the kitchen and came back with a bowl of rice for me.

Just as her knees started to bend, my father grabbed her and wouldn't let her kneel.

"Making your own mother slap herself and get down on her knees. Victoria, you've really outdone yourself. What's next, you want me and your brother kneeling to wait on you too? Have you no fear of cutting your own life short!"

"I didn't make her hit herself, and I didn't make her kneel. The reason I don't want the job is because"

"Shut up! You still have the nerve to argue!"

My father couldn't take any more. He kicked me square in the arm.

Right on the injured shoulder.

But I didn't feel the pain.

I sat there staring at my mother's right cheek, where there wasn't even a red mark, my mind gone completely blank.

Then three years of being a cripple came flooding back.

The first time I fell, my stump struck the corner of the coffee table, and the blood soaked through my pant leg.

I said, Mom, it hurts so much.

She slapped herself once and said she was sorry.

I bit my lip and went quiet, letting the taste of blood fill my mouth rather than say another word about the pain.

When I came back from a checkup at the hospital, the doctor said I needed counseling.

I said I wanted to see a therapist.

She slapped herself twice again, said a therapist cost several hundred a session, said she deserved to die for not taking better care of me.

So I let it go.

Later, when I could finally walk on the prosthetic, I asked her if she could buy me a new one, because the old one rubbed me raw and hurt to walk on.

Her eyes went red again and she slapped herself once, said that to fix my leg my father worked overtime every day, so much he might as well sleep at the office.

So I gritted my teeth and got used to the pain of metal grinding against bone and flesh.

Before, I thought that if I was obedient, if I was good, if I never caused them trouble, I might earn a sliver of love.

I even thought her slapping herself was proof that she loved me.

But now, I finally understood. It was emotional blackmail.

Every time I cried out in pain.

Every time I said I was hurting.

Every time I wanted them to look at me a little longer.

She would turn it on herself like this.

Because she knew it would shut me up.

But the truth was, every time she slapped herself, she never put any force behind it.

I picked up the prosthetic, clearly broken now, and said nothing. I dragged myself upright and hopped on one leg to the bedroom door.

The pain nearly buckled me.

Just as I caught the doorframe, Charles came rushing over.

"Vicky, are you okay?"

The force of him slammed me flat to the floor.

He came down hard on top of me.

My shoulder hit the ground again, and everything went black behind my eyes.

I clenched my teeth and made no sound.

The tears came first.

But Mom and Dad rushed straight over to lift Charles up, checking him over.

"Charlie, are you hurt? Did the fall hurt?"

Once they were sure he was fine, Dad scowled and snapped at me.

"Nobody hit you, nobody yelled at you. What are you crying about now?"

"Moping around all day, like the whole family owes you a fortune."

The whole family was cursing at me.

He and Mom had both seen Charles stomp my prosthetic.

They had both seen him knock me down.

And still they called it nobody hitting, nobody yelling.

Lying there on the floor, I heard something warm drip onto the tiles, and I suddenly laughed out loud.

Mom's eyes finally moved off Charles and onto me.

When she made out the blood on the floor, something like pity flickered across her face, and she hurried to help me up.

Then Charles shot his arm out, holding it up in front of me.

"Vicky, if you hate me and don't want me helping you, just say so. Why go and pinch me on the sly?"

There was a clear pinch mark on his arm, the skin broken just a little, a thin line of blood seeping out.

I hadn't touched him.

But Mom stared at that mark and her eyes went red in an instant.

She turned and slapped me across the face.

"Victoria, what is the matter with you!"

"Every single year you can't let one birthday go by in peace!"

My face jerked to the side, my ears ringing.

My cheek burned, my mouth full of the taste of blood.

Charles stood behind Mom and smiled at me.

That smile was all smugness and dare.

He slid an arm around Mom's shoulders and soothed her.

"Mom, don't be upset. Vicky just did badly on her exams, she's in a bad mood. My birthday wish was for our family to be peaceful from now on."

Mom wiped her tears and nodded.

"Charlie, you're the one who really cares. I don't know how other people's daughters turn out so warm and sweet!"

Dad kicked the prosthetic off to the side and said impatiently,

"Enough! Everyone leave her alone. Let's eat!"

In the end Mom couldn't quite bring herself to leave it. She ordered gauze, iodine, and painkillers, and dropped them on my bed.

"A little cut like this you can deal with at home. Save the money for fixing the prosthetic."

She took the prosthetic and pulled the door shut for me.

I stayed on the floor, not moving.

My head was full of this day, three years ago.

That day Mom had sent me to take Charles out to buy the cake he wanted, and when the runaway truck came barreling at us, there was only one thought in my head: my brother can't get hurt.

I was fifteen that year.

I saved Charles. Even the cake he loved came out only slightly dented.

But I lost a leg.

At first, because I'd saved his life, my parents and Charles doted on me, careful with me.

That was the happiest month I'd ever had. So happy I thought losing a leg was worth it.

But once I was out of the hospital and back home, everything went back to just the way it was before.

No. There was one difference.

Charles and I used to each have a bedroom on the upper floor.

But after I came home, with my bad leg, I could only live in the storage room on the ground floor.

And my old room became Charles's storage closet.

After dinner, my parents drove off together to take Charles to a karaoke bar to party with his friends.

Before they left, Mom called out to me the way she always did.

"Vicky, if it's no trouble, clear the table, wash up the dishes, and give the floor a mop."

She never openly forced me to do anything. It was always, is it any trouble for you? Can you manage?

For one look of approval, I'd been washing dishes and mopping floors since I was five.

I never stopped, not even after I lost the leg.

And what did it ever get me?

Nothing at all.

So they wouldn't notice I'd gone, I did every chore she'd asked. Then I packed my clothes with a few quick motions, wiped the dust off the crutches that had sat forgotten for so long, took the only three hundred-odd dollars in cash I had, and walked out the door.

When my parents got home and saw the house clean and tidy, they exchanged a smile.

The next second, Dad's phone buzzed. It was the hospital.

"Hello, is this Charles Finch's family? He's been stabbed. He's lost too much blood. He needs emergency surgery!"