Educated

My own memory of Shawn begins in the kitchen, perhaps two months after
the second accident.
I am making corn chowder. The door squeaks and I twist at the waist to see
who’s come in, then twist back to chop an onion.
“You gonna be a walking Popsicle stick forever?” Shawn says.
“Nope.”
“You need a chiropractor,” he says.
“Mom’ll fix it.”
“You need a chiropractor,” he says again.
The family eats, then disperses. I start the dishes. My hands are in the hot,
soapy water when I hear a step behind me and feel thick, callused hands wrap
around my skull. Before I can react, he jerks my head with a swift, savage
motion. CRACK! It’s so loud, I’m sure my head has come off and he’s
holding it. My body folds, I collapse. Everything is black but somehow
spinning. When I open my eyes moments later, his hands are under my arms
and he’s holding me upright.
“Might be a while before you can stand,” he says. “But when you can, I
need to do the other side.”
I was too dizzy, too nauseous, for the effect to be immediate. But
throughout the evening I observed small changes. I could look at the ceiling. I
could cock my head to tease Richard. Seated on the couch, I could turn to
smile at the person next to me.
That person was Shawn, and I was looking at him but I wasn’t seeing him.
I don’t know what I saw—what creature I conjured from that violent,
compassionate act—but I think it was my father, or perhaps my father as I
wished he were, some longed-for defender, some fanciful champion, one who
wouldn’t fling me into a storm, and who, if I was hurt, would make me
whole.