by JD Chambers
16
Arthur
“It’s not going to do you any good, just sitting at the hospital and waiting. Let’s go out to eat,” Westley says.
It’s the weekend and he doesn’t have to return to Boulder until tomorrow, but he’s been trying to get me out since he first arrived. He managed to talk me into a quick shower at home yesterday, but I don’t want to leave the hospital if I don’t have to. Even if we won’t find out anything. I called in sick all week, but the other guys have started taking shifts now that the flow of information has dwindled to a drip of fine-tuned eavesdropping.
“Ted will let you know if anything happens, right Ted?”
“You need to take care of yourself,” Ted says to me after nodding his agreement with Westley. Like he’s one to talk. The only reason he doesn’t reek right now is because Kieran has brought fresh changes of clothes up to him on a regular basis.
We stop by a basic burger joint near the hospital. Westley knows better than to get me too far away, but even that much distance feels weird. Being outside feels weird. Like the world has gone on without me, while time stood still in the hospital waiting room.
“I’m worried about you,” Westley says when we grab our food from the counter and find a place to sit.
“I’m fine.”
“I had no idea you and this guy –”
“Dave,” I interrupt, because it’s important to say his name.
“You and Dave were so serious.”
“I love him.” It feels wrong to say it to Westley first, but I have to get it out there. “I haven’t even told him yet. I love him and what if he never knows?”
Westley sets down his burger and slides into the bench beside me, throwing his arms around me and holding me tight.
“He knows. Anyone can take one look at you and know how you feel about the man. You are not a very good actor, Arthur.”
“I just want the chance to tell him,” I say quietly.
Westley pulls his food across the table and digs in, but I only pick at my meal. When my phone buzzes with a notification, I rush to retrieve it.
Ted: There’s news.
Arthur: We’ll be right there.
When we return, a nurse informs us that Dave has come out of a second surgery in stable condition. He has a long recovery ahead of him, but he will recover. It’s a good thing Westley is nearby, because he holds tight around my waist when my legs almost give way at the news. When Ted beats me to the punch, asking to see him, the nurse regretfully informs us that his parents have limited visitation to family only.
My brother returns to Boulder early Monday, but I’m forever grateful that he dropped everything and was there for me when I needed him. I never imagined needing him to lean on, and the fact that he came means everything to me.
Terry and Rohit also stopped by, took orders for the entire group and returned with food. It’s moments like these where people can show their true colors, and my people are amazing.
I can’t get out of work this week. If I stay at home, I’ll go crazy. And since they won’t let me see Dave, I need the preoccupation. Usually at work I get lost in the numbers. I enjoy the methodical aspect to my job, and I’m great at multitasking, which before Dave meant flirting while doling out money, and after Dave meant mooning over him while doling out money. Now all I can do is worry, and my multitasking has gone to shit. I usually never make mistakes, but my drawer has been off every single day this week. I’ll be surprised if Stephanie doesn’t pull me aside before the day is finished and tell me to either get my shit together or take a hike. Except Stephanie is really nice, so instead with every mess-up, she shoots me this look of sympathy that lets me know there will be no repercussions coming any time soon.
Since I can’t spend time with him, I can at least surround myself with him, so once Westley goes back home, I spend every night at Dave’s apartment instead of my own. I brought a suitcase of clothes and all my toiletries and made myself some space in his closet. Once I hear that he’s getting released from the hospital, I’ll move it all back. But being here fills the Dave-sized hole in a way, like I’m somehow near him when I can’t actually be.
The sheets still smell of him, but with each passing day it fades as my scent begins to overpower it. I wait as long as I can to wash the sheets, but I leave his pillowcase on his pillow and set it aside. Dave’s scent still clings to the fabric like he’s embedded pieces of himself into it, and I have no shame in admitting I hug it to my chest each night as I sleep.
When the next weekend comes around and still no word of Dave, I decide to install myself even further into his home by cleaning his apartment. Since I’ve co-opted it as my own, I need to keep it nice for him, but I’ve also discovered some things by living here that I could assist with. Like how it appears that the tiles of the shower haven’t been cleaned since Britney released “Toxic.” And how half of the food in his pantry has turned into a science experiment.
I’m in the middle of the most disgusting refrigerator cleaning that I’ve ever undertaken, when I hear a key rattle in the front door.
“Dave?”
I know logically it can’t be him, but it doesn’t stop my skin from lighting up and my chest expanding like a helium balloon at the thought. Maybe his injury wasn’t as bad as we were led to believe? I rush to the front door, yellow rubber gloves still on my hands and covered in soapy bubbles from washing one of the refrigerator drawers. When the door swings open, my insides burst like the soapy bubbles now fizzling out and dripping to floor in loud splats.
“Mrs. Taylor.”
My presence here shocks Dave’s mom, but she recovers quickly enough.
“And you are?” she asks, brushing past me into the apartment. She clicks at her tongue as she takes in every aspect. The ratty old couch. The wobbly coffee table. The single twin bed. “Obviously not his roommate.”
“Uh,” I start, then clear the frog from my throat. “I’m Arthur. Dave’s friend. How’s he doing?”
“Sleeping mostly. His body needs the rest.” She enters the kitchen. “Does he hire you to clean? Is that how you got in here?”
I bite back all the things I want to stay to that. This is Dave’s mom. She’s hurting. But damn.
“No, he gave me a spare key. I noticed some things were messy the last time I was here. And since I can’t visit him in the hospital …” Hint, hint, but she doesn’t even blink like it registers. “Cleaning is something useful, something I could do for him. Plus, there’s nothing like having a nice clean apartment to come home to.”
Mrs. Taylor turns, her full attention on me this time, and not the apartment. When we saw his family at the hospital, she seemed like the meek one while her husband went after doctors, nurses, Ted, anyone who crossed his path. But now, I can tell that Mrs. Taylor isn’t someone to be crossed either.
“Dave will not be returning. Once he is well enough, he will be moving back home so that I can take care of him while he recovers.”
Something about all this seems off. Dave has never spoken about his family or his time at home and in Longmont with anything but absolute disdain. He’s gone so far as to wish he could atone for his bratty, spoiled behavior, although I cannot picture a world where Dave is any of those things. But I don’t quite know how to say that to the woman who looks like she could blast me with laser beams from her eyes the second I question her authority. She even has my confidence quaking, so I can only imagine how she rolled right over Dave as a child.
“That’s … surprising.”
“Dave realizes now the error of his ways and sees that it is for the best. So, thank you, but your services are no longer needed.”
“Oh, well.” I look from the drawer still dripping in the sink to her.
“Go on and finish that. I’ll wait. You can leave your spare key with me when you leave.”
I finish cleaning the drawer and reinsert it into the fridge, which is now half sparkling and half coated with sticky spilled grime.
I take my suitcase and start to pack up my things when Dave’s mom starts to object.
“These are my things.” Keeping my voice level is increasingly difficult.
“Were you staying here?”
There are so many unspoken accusations in that one sentence.
“I was staying here to clean and keep up his apartment for him.”
I go to the bathroom for my toiletries and return to find her thumbing through my things.
“I’m pretty sure your son and I are completely different sizes. If you think any of those clothes would fit him, you’re more than welcome to keep them, but the cost of tailoring them would probably be outrageous.”
She huffs but backs away and allows me to finish packing. I grab Dave’s pillow and put it on top, daring her to say something about it.
“The key,” she says when I wheel my bag to the front door.
I slide it off my keyring, feeling like I’m handing over a piece of my heart instead of a stupid piece of metal. I hear the click of the lock after she closes the door behind me.
And just like that, I’ve been evicted from Dave’s life.
“Have you heard anything?” I ask as I sink into the chair in front of Ted’s desk.
It’s the fourth time this week that I’ve stopped by after being kicked out of Dave’s apartment. I’m desperate for news, and Ted has been kind enough to tolerate my daily visits. Unfortunately, he’s in the same boat I am. Dave’s parents blocked him from seeing Dave as well, and they told the hospital not to give us any more updates on Dave’s condition.
So, when Ted’s answer is “sort of,” I almost slide off the chair and onto the floor in my surprise.
“His mom called earlier today to give his notice.”
“What?”
“She’s moving him back to Longmont.”
“She mentioned that to me when she was busy kicking me out of his apartment. But I thought she meant just while he recovers. Not permanently.”
I notice that Ted looks uneasy. A perfect match to my insides.
“What?”
He shakes his head and shuffles some papers on his desk.
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“No.” Ted sighs and finally stops fidgeting. “I just don’t believe her. I asked to talk to Dave, and she said he was still too tired. I told her that I needed an address to send his last paycheck to, and she told me to keep it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“There’s nothing I can do,” he says. “Except I’m not hiring behind him. Not until I know for sure it’s what he wants. What are you going to do?”
The raised eyebrow that accompanies his question has me frozen to my seat. “What do you mean? What is there for me to do but wait, just like you?”
“You’re not giving up on him either, then?”
“No. Never.”
“Good.”
17
Dave
At this point, the pain is a constant. They gave me control over the morphine drip once I became conscious enough to use it, but I discovered that it caused the vomiting. Since the vomiting only makes my guts hurt more, I’d rather go without the morphine. They’ve been giving me hospital-strength Tylenol instead. It barely makes a dent.
My days and times are a jumble until one day my mother insists on opening the curtains and I’m too tired to fight her. My room looks out onto the rooftop of another part of the hospital. Or at least the part I can see from my bed.
When I first started to become more aware of my surroundings, I realized that the constant talking in the room was my parents. I remember seeing my dad and the look of disappointment on his face, but it’s my mom who has been here every day, trying to engage me. I don’t have the energy. “Too tired” usually keeps her from trying for more of a response, but it doesn’t stop her from continuing on with hour-long one-sided conversations.
I think one day after the opening of the curtains, she might have brought Emily with her for a visit. Either that or I’m seeing double. Dealing with my family requires a level of emotional masking that I simply don’t have right now. So instead of interacting, I retreat further and further into my head. My thoughts center around pain, and I find a mental escape in it, but not a positive one like when I’m a puppy or tied up.
The only person that makes me feel any relief at all is the night nurse. My mom usually leaves by dinnertime, and for the past few days, Kelly has been assigned to my room. I still have an IV, and for the longest time I had no desire to eat. I’ve started to feel hungry, but I wonder how much of that can be chalked up to boredom. I feel like I should be eating, not that I want to.
“How are you feeling tonight?” Kelly asks when she reports for her first shift. She makes some notes on my whiteboard and takes my temperature and blood pressure, like always.
“Same,” I sigh, looking out the window at the darkening night. Mom always opens the curtains, but she never remembers to close them.
Kelly follows my line of vision and pulls them closed for me, then returns to my bed and checks my chart.
“It looks like you’re going for another scan tomorrow, and if things look good, they might let you start on some liquids. How does that sound?”
“Okay.”
“Let’s see, you had Tylenol four hours ago. Do you think you need another dose? On a scale of …”
“Six.”
I cut her off because the nurses don’t need to do the whole spiel every single fucking time, even though they always do. The pain has plateaued. It’s no longer so bad that I’m plotting ways to permanently put myself out of my misery, but it isn’t ignorable. If I’m not taking Tylenol regularly, then I can’t sleep and every tiny shift sends lashes of pain through me. But with the Tylenol, it dulls it enough that I can comfortably nap.
“Here’s the remote.” She moves the controller that ties to the bed, the television, and the nurse call button – all in one. “I’ll be back with your Tylenol.”
“Thanks.”
Her steps falter, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve thanked any of the people helping me here at the hospital. It makes me feel like a jackass, which makes me go backward into a misery spiral.
I’m sure I take the pain pills because I fall asleep, but I don’t notice. I don’t remember. Like so much of my time here.
18
Dave
“We’re taking you home, sweetheart.”
After weeks, maybe months, of pain, my body has finally recovered enough to be released from the hospital. My mind is something else. I don’t care where I am, I just want to sleep.
My dad waits in the driver’s seat of his massive SUV. Kelly, my favorite nurse, stuck around after her shift, just so she could be with me when they released me. She gives me tips on how to get in and out of the vehicle without too much pain, and she and my mom help me back myself into the too-tall seat. If it were a lower vehicle, it wouldn’t have put so much strain on me, but I have to push up to reach the seat, and it sends a shooting pain across my side and around my stomach. I pull the vomit bag closer to my lips, but thankfully, keep everything inside.
“How’re you doing, champ?” Dad asks like I’m a ten-year-old at a baseball game and I struck out, not got shot in the stomach.
God, how I want to be able to flip my dad the bird, but I don’t even have enough energy for that, so I silently glare toward the front seat as my mom fusses and tucks blankets around me. I have an hour-long trip ahead of me to Longmont, which is why, despite the fact that it makes me nauseous, I’ve agreed to something stronger than Tylenol to help get me through the drive.
If only I could take a sleeping pill or somehow otherwise induce unconsciousness so that I didn’t have to listen to my dad for the next hour. He rants about crime and being tough on even first-time offenders. I’m pretty sure this incident will be the highlight of his next retention campaign.
My old room waits, although it now has a full-size bed covered
in a floral print that matches the curtains. It was a twin bed with a Star Wars comforter when I lived here. I toss off my jeans without hesitation, even if my mom still hovers. The t-shirt sticks to the ooze that has seeped through the bandage a bit. I think it’s just the antibiotic ointment that they’re having me apply and not anything truly disgusting, but it still sticks and pulls, and I feel the nausea rise up at just the thought of what’s underneath that bandage. Once again, I successfully swallow it back down.
Mom leaves me with a remote to the TV on the dresser opposite the bed, a bell to ring if I need her, and a large plastic hospital sippy cup filled with ice water. Dad didn’t even bother to help me to the bedroom. Probably off writing down his latest ideas for using my tragedy to his advantage.
Days pass, but time means nothing when you sleep twenty out of twenty-four hours a day. Part of it is exhaustion, but part is because I don’t want to leave the room, especially when my dad deigns to show his presence. One afternoon, I needed pain medicine and thought to get it myself, and discovered my parents arguing in the kitchen. The unusual part of that equation being my dad was home before midnight.
“He could ruin everything if it got out. It doesn’t exactly fit in with my campaign narrative,” Dad says in an urgent rush of whispered words.
“But that’s why he needs to be here. We can straighten him out. Get him back on the right track.” Mom doesn’t bother to whisper, the pleading in her voice carrying it louder and louder.
“Is there any coming back from that? Honestly, Marjorie?”
I didn’t want to hear any more, and returned to my room, ringing the bell Mom left so I could get her attention. When she arrived, worry creased her forehead and around her eyes, but she pretended like she hadn’t just been arguing with my dad.
