Weeks passed and Timmy made an excellent progress, recovering health as well as good mood. Slowly, he began to participate in class, to do the same work his classmates were required to do. Mr. Garrison would have gone easier but Timmy was filled with this optimism about his own improvement, which encouraged him to try. Sometimes he pushed himself too much and had to stop and go slower; at times, he understood the lessons perfectly without his teacher and classmates having to help him. At recess he looked far more lively, participating in the games, and, mostly, talkative.
Oh, yes, Timmy now talked a lot. And the novelty was that he didn't do it in that particular language of his.
Timmy was definitely trying hard. Since that intervention in class, Timmy could be heard trying to say tongue-twisters to himself, pointing at objects around him and saying their names, reading out loud. But what was the most amazing part of the issue?
He often succeeded.
He was slow, had a lot of pronunciation mistakes, but the sentences coming out of his mouth had sense even for the adults around him. And each small victory lifted Timmy's spirit.
Ding dong!
Mr. Burch was the one who answered, since he was casually next to the door, fixing a drawer.
"Richard!"
"Hey, Mr. Burch! Here's your Tegridy." It was no other than Randy Marsh, who made a stop in his delivery route to give the Burches their order, a box full of joints. "I know about your problem, so I made sure it's ready to smoke."
"Ah, Richard! Richard Richard Richard...Richard?" Mr. Burch replied, happily taking the weed and going in to get the payment.
"Uh, yeah..."
"M-My dad tha-thanks you and asks you ab-ab-about your family."
Who was that? That voice was familiar but he didn't believe until he saw the boy approaching that the one who had just talked was him.
"Wow, Timmy, I heard you were making a progress, but this is spectacular!" Randy complimented him.
"Mr. Smith is giving me speech exercises...H...He says my recovery is going fine and think I'm red...ready."
"That's great, that's great. You've got an amazing son, Richard, all a fighter."
"Richard..." Mr. Burch nodded, looking at Timmy with pride.
"And, yeah, the kids are fine, Sharon's too. We've all been busy with the farm and stuff, that's all. Say hi to your wife for me."
"Richard Richard Richard?"
"Uh..." Randy glanced at Timmy.
"He's asking if you want to stay and enjoy s-some Tegg-Teggd-Tedrigy with him."
"Ah, no, thanks. I still got lots of orders to deliver. Maybe another time. Now that we have a interpreter, things will be much easier, haha. Well, goodbye, Timmy. Keep up the good work. Maybe one day you'll be completely normal. I mean, not...special? Uh...Uh...Able to walk. Yeah, 'cause if...you try, there's nothing impossible and stuff...Uh..Bye, bye."
"Richard!" Mr. Burch waved his hand at him and closed the door. He glanced at his son and thought that perhaps it was not appropriate for him to know about his and his mother's pastime once he was in bed, so he went to his bedroom to leave the Tedrigy at the bottom of their closet, then went back to the living room to end his task.
Timmy was watching the television again, but Mr. Burch didn't realize he was not interested in those Canadians farting in each other's faces anymore.
"Richard! Richard!"
Mr. Burch was about to jump into his bed after putting his pajamas on when the call of his wife alarmed him. Dropping onto his wheelchair again, he drove out of his bedroom and went quickly to their son's bedroom. He saw Timmy on the floor and his wife trying to get him up from her chair.
"I'm ok-okay, Mom! Really!" Timmy insisted, struggling to reach his wheelchair.
"Richard?" Mr. Burch asked, assisting him by approaching him the wheelchair and grabbing Gobbles, who was standing close to the fallen boy, watching with curiosity.
"I..."
"Helen, Helen Helen!" No, his mother was not calming down, even if she was seeing he was not hurt.
"I-I wanted to try to...Mr. Marsh said I could walk if I t-t-tried...So I..."
Mrs. Burch turned to her husband, looking at him with her eyes wide open. Mr. Burch didn't reply. He gave Timmy a last push which helped him back to his wheelchair and for a moment silence took over the room, a tense silence which also affected the turkey, who looked at the three of them like wondering what the problem was.
"Richard...Richard Richard Richard..." He said to his son. Randy Marsh had some pre-conveived ideas about their conditions, wrong ideas many abled people had. It didn't work that way. Sometimes efforts didn't mean a thing. And Timmy shouldn't have tried to do things so quickly.
"Don't you t-think I can?"
"Richard, Richard!"
"Helen Helen Helen!" Of course he could! It was just that...he couldn't forget what he had been through. He had made a big effort working on his pronunciation already. He didn't have to push himself so far—he shouldn't. He had to take it a bit slower.
"I f-feel like I can..." Timmy insisted. "I just..."
"Helen..." His mother interrupted him, caressing his hair lovingly. He would. She was sure of that. One day, he would improve more and more and more, until he was highly-functional.
"Richard..." Mr. Burch finished the sentence. Yes, but he had to take his time and not rush things.
"...I'm sorry..."
Mrs. Burch kissed his cheek, so did Mr. Burch.
Both of them helped him get in his bed, wished him good night and went back to their bedroom.
Once both of them were in their bed, instead of smoking Tedridy, they had a private conversation, careful to whisper so that Timmy didn't hear them.
Their family life had not always been easy. They both had it difficult to move out of their families' house. They didn't approve their romance and marriage. When they announced the pregnancy, many called them irresponsible—how could they bring a child to the world who would surely inherit their illness? How could they make an innocent kid go through all the troubles they had suffered? But they didn't listen to them, Timmy was born, as ill as people predicted he would be, yes, but still sweet, funny and lively. They fought every day of their lives to give him the chances they never had growing up. They moved from the city to South Park to give him a place to grow up where people were friendly, he could breath clean air and he wouldn't be surrounded by an asphalt jungle. They fought the school to provide him the care he needed. Of course they wanted to see Timmy improve, but the image of him lying in an hospital bed with dozens of doctors around him trying to prevent his brains from leaking out of a bullet hole was still present in their minds. It was a miracle he didn't end up in a pine box or with sequels which would leave him almost a vegetable. It was enough for them.
Yes, it was good that Timmy used the effort to get his energy back to improve his skills, but he had to calm down before something bad happened. Too much mental effort couldn't be good, the doctors said.
They hoped Timmy listened to them. It was not that they didn't want to see him talking and walking. It was for his own good.
The boy, in his room, caressed Gobbles' feathers while his open eyes were fixed on the light filtering through the curtains.
His parents were right. He shouldn't have done that. But...
But he had to try! He felt unstoppable! He knew he could do it! Mr. Marsh was right! He had been able to overcome the sequels of the shooting, he now could form full sentences and people understood him! He could walk! He knew he could!
He would make them all proud. He would teach them...
He rolled on one side and looked at the protuberances in the sheets: his feet. As always immobile, the alien part of his body. Since they never moved, they had little muscle.
Timmy frowned.
(Work)
(Work)
(I know you can)
He could feel the connection. Weak, very, very weak. But enough for his brain to command toes to move.
Smiling, Timmy closed his eyes and finally went to sleep, cuddling against Gobbles, who also closed his.
Yes, he could. But for the moment he would take his parents' advice and rest.
