Additional Information

Ethan Carter stuck his cane through the threshold of his office, which was a very generous way to refer to this cramped, extremely cluttered eight by eight foot room. Most 27 year old men would keep their offices neat, but Ethan had an excuse. He had cerebral palsy, which affected his left arm and leg by making his muscles spasm and tighten quite literally every second of every day. His outlook on it had historically been one of indifference, swirled with a nice helping of defiance. His mother had taught him that. When he was growing up, she had always told him “You can do anything the other kids can sweetie. Just put that sharp mind of yours to it.” She was right for the most part, but sometimes she was full of shit. This was one of those times.

Ethan was about to begin taking adaptive driving lessons, and it required a shit load of paperwork, to put it politely. He had to submit medical records, family histories, insurance information, as well as things that nobody would expect, like diet, exercise habits, and food allergies. Can’t hurt to be thorough, Ethan thought, But holy shit, this is intense. Beyond the usual chronic aches and pains, Ethan’s head was starting to hurt from all this information. After what seemed like an eternity but was probably roughly and hour and a half, he finally had everything in order and ready to be mailed. After all was said and done, he had a stack of about fifteen pages of information, much of which didn’t seem the least bit relevant to driving. Ethan sighed deeply and lamented to the empty room “Fuck me. I need a beer.” As he shakily stood up from the peeling black faux leather chair, His affected foot jerked forward and kicked the file box over.

He bent down with a pained grunt and began to haphazardly stuff the various manila files back into the box in an order that would send an obsessive compulsive into a conniption fit. He stopped while holding a file with a sizable chunk of the cover torn off. But that wasn’t what caught his eye. Ethan was intrigued by the fact that the writing on the tab merely read: “ERC 04/17/01”. The file was marked with his initials, and a date on which Ethan had been just over two years old. He rested the file in his lap and flipped it open with his right hand, while his left one writhed and spasmed away at his side. It tended to do that when Ethan was excited or nervous.

The first sheet in the file was a newspaper clipping, dated April 18th, 2001. The headline jumped out at Ethan like he had seen a polka dotted elephant. “TWO INJURED IN ROUTE 41 CRASH.” Ethan was confused. Why did Mom save this? It’s from 25 years ago. He put the clipping aside, assuming that the next page would answer his question. He was staring down ar a black and white standard size sheet of paper, with rows of rectangular blanks that had been filled in with blue ballpoint pen. The ink was faded, but Ethan could still read most of it.

The page was titled “VEHICLE INCIDENT REPORT”. Ethan scanned down the page, and his eyes came to rest on the space in section I labeled “DRIVER 1 NAME”. In the space, written in an untidy blue scrawl, “Michael Bruce Patterson” Ethan instantly felt a knot form in his stomach. Uncle Mike?…I never knew he was in a car crash. Section II was filled with information about the vehicle, which was a 1988 Ford Escort, the exact car Ethan’s mom had driven when he was little.

The knot in his stomach tightened and became outright painful when his eyes found section III. “KILLED OR INJURED”, screamed the boldface 36 pt font in the top box. The next box read “Ethan Robert Carter”, in the same untidy blue handwriting, only here it seemed even messier, almost as if the officer had been emotional while writing it. The next box read “TRANSPORTED TO: Stuart Redman Memorial Hospital. Mom told me I spent time there when I was little, but she said it was for a surgery. In the additional information section, the same untidy handwriting said: “Additional Information pending”.

Ethan’s head was reeling. He really needed that beer. Ethan started to stand up, and noticed his legs felt weak. Granted, Ethan’s legs always felt weak, but now they were especially so. He limped out of the office and into the kitchen. Looking out the window he could see that the skyline was beginning to turn amber. How long was I in there for? Ethan made his way to his beat up mini-fridge and took out a Modelo, his favorite beer. Instead of going all the way over to his recliner, Ethan just sat on top of his fridge. Now wasn’t the time for comfort. Ethan just needed to clear his head. His service dog, Rosie padded up and sniffed him, apparently concerned that her master smelled distressed.

Why wouldn’t Mom tell me I was in a car crash? Ethan felt guilty for being mad at his mom. After all, she had put nearly everything she had into giving him as normal a life as she possibly could make for him, always advocating and researching anything that could help him. But that doesn’t forgive this. Ethan’s guilt melted away, until all he felt was confusion and and anger. It was hard enough being disabled, but now to find out his entire picture of it had been a lie? That was too much. Ethan dug his severely cracked iPhone out of his jeans pocket and called his older sister, Lauren. He didn’t call to get answers, not even to yell at her for hiding it from him. He just needed someone to talk to. Lauren picked up on the first ring.

“Hey E! What’s up?”, Lauren chirped cheerfully.

“Why didn’t Mom tell me I was in a car accident?”

Lauren’s tone instantly darkened. “How did you find out?”

Ethan stood up, bracing himself on the wall next to him. “I found the police report in a box of old documents. But that’s not the point Lauren. Why was I lied to?”

“Ethan … I didn’t think you’d ever find it.”

“Answer me.”

Lauren made a sound, something halfway between a sigh and a gasp. “Mom thought she was protecting you.”

“Protecting me? From what?” Lauren was silent for a few seconds. This only made Ethan angrier.

“Not over the phone. I can be there in half an hour.” Before Ethan could reply, Lauren hung up the phone.

Ethan threw his phone across the room, knocking a signed Rush album off the wall. Normally, that would have sent him into hysterics, but he barely reacted. Even though it was immensely painful, Ethan spent the next thirty minutes pacing around his apartment, while Rosie stared confusedly up at him. Lauren finally arrived, and Ethan opened the door without saying a word.

“27 years Lauren”, Ethan growled.

Lauren looked at him with a mix of shame and pity than Ethan had never seen on her face before.

“I’m so sorry Ethan, I always wished you had known, but mom insisted you couldn’t.”

“What the fuck? Start talking, Lauren.”

Lauren drew a breath and locked eyes with her little brother.

“ I was with Dad. Uncle Mike had taken you and Mom to see the new Spider-Man movie. God, all Mom could say was how much you loved it. I think that’s all she let herself think about. Mom had a migraine. You know how she gets those. Uncle Mike offered to drive.” Lauren reached across the small table to take Ethan’s hand, but he pulled away as if his hand has grazed a snake.

Lauren sighed. “Uncle Mike had been drinking. He drifted into the next lane. The car was T-boned, and you got the worst of it. Mike’s blood alcohol was almost 0.2. He should’ve faced consequences, but you know that Papa was friends with the sheriff. He convinced the cops to turn a blind eye. Mom always used to say Mike was Papa’s favorite. Guess she was right.”

Ethan clenched his right fist, the only one he actually could clench.

“Every time. Every time I asked mom why I had to see all those doctors. When I asked her what was wrong with me. It was all bullshit.”

Ethan was not a crying man. Years of medical issues will do that, but now the tears came. This time, Ethan let Lauren take his hand. She held his gaze.

“Mom always blamed herself. “She thought if you knew you were disabled because your uncle got behind the wheel drunk, you’d spend the rest of your life hating him. and hating her for letting it happen.” Lauren squeezed Ethan’s hand so hard he was starting to feel pins and needles.

“Mike wanted to tell you. Mom wouldn’t allow it. She thought it would break you.”

All of a sudden, Ethan’s tears stopped flowing. “Lauren, I need some space. Can you take off?”

“Ok.” Without another word, Lauren squeezed Ethan’s hand again, stroked Rosie’s head, and walked out the door.

Ethan noticed his phone lying across the room, with some brand new cracks, and went over to pick it up. He scrolled through his extensive contact list, which mostly consisted of people he hadn’t called in years, until he found the one he was looking for.

Ethan heard the gravelly, subdued voice of his favorite uncle: “Hello?”

“It’s Ethan”.

Mike’s voice suddenly grew louder. “You found out.”

“You were drunk. I’m crippled because you couldn’t shake the monkey off your back. Twenty-seven goddamn years, Mike.”

”…I know.”

“Twenty-seven years of looking me in the eye, coming to birthdays, taking me fishing, telling me you loved me… and you never once told me you were the reason my life turned out the way it did.”

“We were trying to protect you Ethan.” Mike was even louder now, but he was far from yelling. In fact, he sounded calm.

“Okay Mike. I’ll tell you this. Your fucking addiction decided how my life started out. But you don’t get to decide what it means.”

Ethan hung up. He sat in silence for a long time. The apartment was still the same. The cracked phone was still on the floor. The beer was sitting on the table, getting warmer. Nothing had changed. And yet everything had. For twenty-seven years, Ethan had lived a story that his family had written for him.

Tomorrow, he would start writing his own.