Hello again. Again I am posting a story that was written for a creative-writing class, this one as an exercise in telling a story in present tense. The class instructor, a published, far more successful, writer than I, was enamored of the present tense; in his opinion, present tense immediately created a stronger emotional impact, making the reader feel as if s/he were "right there," in the midst of the action.

I don't agree with this. To me, reader impact and the "right there" sense depends on the emotional investment of the writer, and his/her skill in conveying that investment, and has nothing to do with a gimmick such as using one tense or another. No less important, of course, is the tenuous, wonderfully indefinable connection between writer and reader--if a reader is not on the same wave-length it won't matter at all how skillful the writer is. This is what makes art meaningful. If readers' reactions could be controlled by using one tense or another, one color over another, or one tone over another, then art could be mass-produced and would have no more meaning than any other mass-produced commodity. And how dull life would be if we couldn't argue about whether Dostoevsky is "better" than Tolstoy, or if Bach is superior to Mozart, and so on.

So anyway. This is the story I wrote in present tense. It's a nasty turn on a perfectly innocent idea suggested to me many years ago. Please comment.

The Injury

Sweat beads up on Christine’s face as she strains to do as she is instructed. It trickles down her back and sides until her white silk blouse sticks transparently to her skin, and her palms soak the grips of the apparatus she leans on. But her left foot will not move.

Christine sighs, pauses, closes her eyes, trying to stop the frustrated tears from sneaking between her lashes. Why do they keep putting her through this? This isn’t physical therapy—it’s torture, pure and simple. Hideous, excruciating torture, rendered more painful by its pointlessness. And by the memories it triggers.

She can still see the countryside flashing by; she can still hear the putt-putt of the old VW as she crashes angrily through the gears, listening without hearing as, from the passenger seat, Daniel says, “Chrissy, we’ve got to talk. I don’t know how to tell you this, but . . . you remember Linda? the one I used to share an office with?”

Christine snorts. Who can forget Linda? Lovely Linda, with the ruthless legal mind, the auburn hair, and the shapely legs in the skirts that are barely longer than her jackets. Linda the career woman who has no interest in having kids, who never reminds him that he had promised so many things, for richer for poorer, ‘til death us do part. And a family. Christine silently keeps her eyes on the road.

Daniel lets a silent moment pass, then begins again. “Well,” he says, “Linda and I . . . JEEZUS CHRIST, CHRIS!“ His voice is suddenly taut with fear, and she turns her head to stare at him.

That was the last thing she remembered before waking up in the hospital, in traction, with a broken pelvis, a shattered leg, and a dull pain where she had once had a uterus. She never saw the truck that shot out from behind a stand of tall corn, ignoring a stop sign, and when the driver of the truck sat, sobbing and uninjured, at her bedside, she patted his hand and comforted him, while one of Daniel’s partners prepared to sue him for all he was worth. In a few days Daniel had recovered from his far less extensive injuries and took the truck driver’s place at her bedside, his blue eyes wide with guilt and forgotten vows. Christine gasped in greater pain than she actually felt as she leaned over to let him kiss her, trying to remember when he’d last done that. Panting, she lay down again and listened to Daniel’s strangled voice saying “The doctor says you might not ever have full use of your foot again. I’m so sorry.” Christine had stared, trying to understand him, but failing, as she always had. What did her foot matter?

“Come on now, Mrs. Hardwell. You must keep trying.”

Christine starts, and smiles almost involuntarily. It’s Julie, the new therapist, who’s administering the torture today, for the first time. Julie’s just out of college, with a sort of innocent prettiness in her creamy, freckled complexion, and the slight overbite that makes her upper lip seem too short to reach the lower one, somehow giving the impression that she’s smiling even when she isn’t. Julie speaks quietly, encouragingly, altogether a much nicer therapist than the old biddy with the tired, iron-gray bun at the back of her neck, who barks out commands like a drill sergeant. Or the fat young man who always finds a way to look down Christine’s blouse, and to sneak his hands much closer to certain parts of her body than Daniel’s hands have been in quite some time. But, like the others, Julie is no miracle worker.

“Julie,” Christine sighs, “why am I doing this? The nerve in my foot was severed, and nothing can make it whole again.”

Julie shoves her upper lip down over her teeth, trying to look stern. “Mrs. Hardwell, you know what Dr. Jackson said. That might be true and it might not; lots of people have regained full or partial movement after an injury such as yours, and we won’t know how it’ll be with you unless you keep working.” The lip pops up and Julie smiles, for real. “Now, try it again, Mrs. Hardwell.”

With another deep sigh, Christine leans on the apparatus, hardly listening as Julie repeats the instructions, telling her which muscles to flex, to try to tease some response from the dead nerve in her foot. And, as usual, confronting the injury brings on memories of its cause.

As Daniel sat at her bedside, she had looked up, thinking, perfect in recollection, pricked with an idea, and asked, “What was it you wanted to tell me, just before it happened?”

Daniel’s stunning blue eyes had been almost teary, and his strong, cleft chin—that Christine, like so many other women, had always found to be swooningly masculine—almost quivered as he struggled to reply. Then he gave a short, deprecating laugh. “What? Oh, that.” The idea broadened to illumination as he swallowed and looked away. “Nothing,” he said. “I don’t even remember anymore.” Christine smiled.

“That’s it, Mrs. Hardwell, that’s . . . that’s fabulous! Do you feel anything?”

Julie’s voice breaks in on Christine’s recollections, her sweet blue eyes sparkling, her rosy lips open, as she witnesses the first miracle of her new career, the sort of miracle that could elicit a gasp of wonder even from the iron-gray old biddy. Christine’s left foot, bathed in sweat, is moving. Just a little, it’s true, but all the same, it’s a start.

“Oh, Mrs. Hardwell,” Julie breathes, practically in tears, “you must feel something now, you must—don’t you?”

Christine stands absolutely still, her sweaty hands holding tightly to the soaked rubber grips of the torture apparatus, her eyes wide, her lips parted in the same expression of beatific surprise that also transfigures Julie. After six months of traction, bedpans, and bedsores, and another five months of leaning on a cane, dragging a useless left foot, heavy with a brace that always sets off the metal detectors at the court house—for the first time in nearly a year she feels something. For the first time since she last stepped on the recalcitrant clutch of her old VW, her left foot responds when she wills it to move.

For a moment her eyes light up with a vision of a cane-free, pain-free world, of running with Daniel along the beach as they did when they were courting—is that really less than three years ago? She tries again, for the first time interested in this torturous process, yes, it’s worth any pain, any amount of sweat . . .

“How’s it going?”

Daniel has arrived to take her home. His baritone voice still thrills her with its edgy sexiness. Like good, strong coffee. That’s how her sister had once described his voice, not bothering to keep the envy from her expression, and Christine still finds it to be an apt, if unexpected, simile. She greets him with a radiant smile. Look, honey, she wants to say, look—I’ve made progress today!

But her smile fades. Daniel isn’t looking at her. He’s looking at Julie. At Julie’s creamy complexion with its dusting of freckles; at her maddeningly imperfect, completely charming smile; at her strong, shapely legs, unencumbered by braces. His stunning eyes light up; he moves a step, to stand closer to Julie than is necessary, and she blushes and steps away. But her pretty upper lip can’t reach the lower, and she can’t suppress a smile as she darts a sideways glance at him.

Christine’s eyes close, her shoulders slump, as Julie remembers her job and speaks excitedly to the husband of her client. “Mr. Hardwell, she’s made progress today.” She turns to Christine, her eyes dancing. “You felt something just now, didn’t you, Mrs. Hardwell? That’s right, isn’t it?”

Christine stands tall in the therapy apparatus, and looks at Julie, with her sparkling eyes, her cute upper lip, and pink cheeks. Christine looks at Daniel, who is looking at Julie. Christine sighs, slumps again, shaking her head. “No,” she whispers, “I felt nothing at all.” More loudly now, she continues. “Take me home, please, Daniel.” And she watches as the familiar guilt returns to Daniel’s expression, and he steps forward to help her. Julie, suddenly flushing, her lip pulled down, moves out of the way, saying nothing.

In another moment Christine is clutching Daniel’s arm, leaning on her cane, her left foot dragging uselessly along. Daniel’s swoon-worthy jaw sets, and he pats her hand and comforts her moans of suppressed pain as he takes his wife home.