by E. R. Whyte
Sunday morning, as I pull into Shiloh’s driveway and step out, a blustery wind whips the leaves up from her yard, reinforcing the message. Blowing into my hands and rubbing them together, I head for the porch just as Shiloh steps out, a cardboard box in her hands.
I can tell she’s excited about visiting Sammy. Her hazel eyes shine as she hands me the box. “There’s some in there for your dad, Esme, and Nonna. The eggplant parm yesterday was so delicious.”
I take it from her and peek inside, assaulted immediately by the scents of warm banana, caramel, and bacon. “Holy crap, that smells amazing.” I wonder what she’d do if I leaned in and planted a swift kiss on her mouth? This feels so natural, the two of us doing ordinary, couple-y things together. She was relaxed yesterday at the vineyard and lunch with my family.
I set the box on the floorboard and help her up into the truck, thoughtful. Maybe she’s not fighting it quite as hard. Maybe I’m wearing her down.
“Thanks… and brrrr.” Clutching her arms across her chest, she sinks into the passenger seat, sighing in pleasure as the warmth hits her.
I shut her door and then jog around the truck to climb into the other side of the cab. “All set?”
“Yep. How about you? You ready to see Sammy?” I nod and start backing out.
“I’m ready.”
I’m a damn liar. I’m not ready. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.
I’ve felt like such a dick for so long for staying away. No one tells you how to deal with something like this. There’s no roadmap for how to act when your friend is suddenly hooked up to machines and tubing and can’t walk or talk. I wouldn’t have wanted my friends — guys I partied with, played football with, wrestled around with, girls I made out with — seeing that shit.
So, I stayed away. Kept my distance so he could keep his pride. Now, though, I feel like the biggest douche alive. I’m not so sure that was the best decision anymore. Shame washes over me, thick and suffocating, and I drum my fingers restlessly on the steering wheel.
Shiloh’s hand reaches over, her fingers curling around the free hand that sits on the armrest. I pull my gaze away from the window to find her eyes steady on me, knowing. “It’s okay,” she says, and I know that she knows what she’s giving me absolution for.
Shiloh tells me more about Sammy on the way to his care residence, so when we pull in more than an hour later, I feel like the ground beneath my feet is somewhat solid.
The first time I saw him in the county hospital, his face swollen to three times its size and the color of mottled eggplant, I sagged over the porcelain toilet and lost my lunch. I didn’t visit much after that, especially after Shiloh returned to school. She says he’s unrecognizable as the same person since that time, his improvements over the past several years slow but steady.
When she tells me about his medical staff contacting her with messages regarding milestones and updates on his progression that she doesn’t get to see right away because of the distance, I can tell how thrilled she is that they are so skilled and personal. “I couldn’t ask for him to be in a better place,” she says. “I lucked into the opening in the first place. Someone else died, so it was pure chance.”
“That competitive, huh?”
“Yes. Most patients here are long term, and it’s a small facility, with just two doctors on staff. You’re on a waiting list from day one, but turnover rates are not high.”
“I’m glad he got in.”
“It was either this or a state facility. I’m thankful.” A low stone wall flanked by a pair of tall pines set back from the road comes into view and Shiloh points. “This is it.”
Thurston House’s grounds epitomize genteel southern charm, with boxwood hedges lining the drive and cherry trees interspersed with the occasional oak offering shade along its course. We park in the small visitor lot and get out, Shiloh pausing to let me tip my head back and admire the white plantation-style architecture of the place. It’s large, yes, but it looks more like a home than a medical facility.
Entering a large foyer that serves as a reception area, Shiloh and I sign in with a receptionist. Shiloh pulls out a small dish of her bread pudding and offers it to the woman, whose eyes crinkle at the corners with laugh lines.
“Shiloh, I swear! You are going to make me fat!” Despite her protests, she bites into the dessert with gusto as we turn to make our way down the hall.
Knocking briefly on a door around midway down a hall to the right, Shiloh places a hand on the wood and pushes. It swings open, showing me a man around my age sitting in a wheelchair by the window. He looks up as Shiloh enters and I hover in the doorway. “Hey, bro,” Shiloh says, walking over to him with the ease of familiarity.
Slumped at an awkward angle in the wheelchair, his once lean and muscular frame is now skin and soft tissue stretched across bone, devoid of the once healthy muscle the bones once boasted. In addition to the brain injury, Shiloh revealed that Sammy sustained a partial spinal fracture that has inhibited his physical recovery, apparent in the condition of his body.
His head lists the smallest degree to one side, and he offers Shiloh a wide, crooked smile that startles me; it’s quintessential Sammy from years ago. “Sis!” She bends to hug him, arms sliding gentle and firm around his shoulders. As I continue to stand in the doorway, uncertain, she turns her head to meet my eyes and I receive her unspoken message: he’s not made of glass. He won’t break.
Clearing her throat, Shiloh straightens. “Sammy, I brought a friend.”
Hazel eyes, so like Shiloh’s, peer out from beneath thick brows. I hitch myself away from the doorjamb and walk toward him, my tongue feeling thick in my mouth.
“Sammy, man, it’s good to see you. It’s been too long.”
Sammy’s expression is blank; his eyes fixed on me without recognition.
“Who’s this, Shy?” he asks, and my heart sinks to my shoes. He doesn’t remember me.
“Sammy, it’s me. Gunner. I’m sorry, man. We used to hang together. I’ve been a little bitch…been afraid you wouldn’t want me here. I should’ve come anyway, man—”
To my amazement, Sammy starts laughing. It’s a strange laugh, a mimicry of his former braying cackle and likely a result of the tubes that he had in his throat at one time, but it’s his. How many times did Miles and I throw shit at him in the middle of the night when he woke us up laughing in his sleep? “You should’ve seen your face…” he says, tears streaming down his face. “You fucking thought I was serious!”
Laughter bubbles up in my chest, as well, and I grip his shoulder. He’s not made of glass. He won’t break. Something splashes my hand and to my chagrin I discover tears streaming down my cheeks, too. “If you weren’t all fucked up, you jackass,” I tell him, bending so our foreheads are pressed together. “I’ve missed you, man.”
As easy as that, the past several years fall away as though they never took place. I pull the visitor chair, a small recliner, closer to Sammy, while Shiloh climbs onto his bed and sits cross-legged. Sammy launches into an energetic description of the latest nurse to join the staff there at Thurston House, and we laugh as he demonstrates his flirting skills.
“What about you, Gun?” Sammy speaks carefully, each word a deliberate pronunciation. Shiloh told me there was still some processing delay, something else that is steadily improving. “Any girls I need to know about?”
The other person in the room finds her nails fascinating and is no help at all. “There’s one, sure. She’s being a little cagey, though.”
“What’s she like?”
Now I have Shiloh’s attention. “What’s she like? Hmm. She’s really pretty.” Her freckled cheeks pinken. “She’s smart. She likes poetry —”
“Well, that’s easy. Write her a poem. You got this, dude.” I cover my mouth with my hand to hide my laughter.
“In the bag. What else? She’s a good cook. Best lips ever — soft and sweet —”
Sammy groans.
“Mean, dude. I haven’t been kissed in three years.” Shiloh shoots me a dirty look.
“Sorry, man. What about you, Shiloh? You got a hot guy you’re interested in that you’d like to tell your brother about?”
“What? No!” Shiloh’s face is red now.
The smile that drapes my face is not nice, but she should know by now that I don’t play nice. I waggle my finger at her. “Oh, yeah? That’s not what I’m hearing. I’m hearing you might be thinking of bringing someone around for the ‘meet my brother’ visit.”
“Oh, my God!”
“Who is this guy, Shiloh?” Sammy’s eyes narrow.
Shiloh waves it off even as her eyes flash at me. “No one important, Sammy. I’ll bring him when he is, don’t worry. You get to meet the keepers.” Tucking my hands back behind my head, I lean back in the recliner in satisfaction. She has no idea what she just let slip, but I do, and I’ll take every opportunity to remind her of it when it suits me.
“Oh, so I guess that means I’m a keeper, then!” Another presence intrudes into the room and upon our conversation, and I thrust my arms outward, sitting up in a hurry. Who the hell is this jackass coming in here and calling himself my girl’s keeper? Jealousy flares, quick and hot, in my gut, as I identify the man entering the room as Sammy’s doctor.
He’s a fraction shorter than my six-three, with a sculpted build that speaks to dedicated gym time. His shoulders and chest are particularly heavy, making me wonder if he spends time lifting and maneuvering patients.
He’s older than me, in his thirties. Dark hair is cut in some kind of high-maintenance, metrosexual style.
Shiloh has already risen and is greeting him with a smile and an uncomfortable-looking side hug. “Of course, you’re a keeper,” she assures him. “I don’t know what we would have done without you as Sammy’s doctor. Gunner, this is Sammy’s physician, Dr. Adams.” His smile strains a fraction, and I know he isn’t thinking in terms of being Sammy’s doctor.
Stepping forward, I offer my hand and introduce myself. He shakes my hand but quickly dismisses me, turning back to Shiloh and positioning her inside the room with himself in front of the door. I wonder if she notices.
“Shiloh. I keep telling you—”
“Call you Jason, I know. Sorry.”
He smiles at her, his eyes flicking to me and back to her. “I was a little concerned when you didn’t visit yesterday like you normally do.” The doctor tucks the stack of folders he’s holding against his chest as he crosses his arms. His plaid button-up pulls taut against his biceps, and he flexes subtly. Rolling my eyes, I catch Sammy’s eye and find humor lurking.
“Oh, sorry about that,” Shiloh was saying. “I left a message with the desk that I would be in today instead.”
“Yes, well. It’s just unlike you. You’re so habitual. I hope nothing was amiss.” He smiles, and it’s downright creepy. And amiss. What century is this guy from?
Shiloh frowns. “Everything was fine, thanks. Just busy with things.”
A little smile teases the corner of his mouth. “Sure, sure. Well, I have updates if you’re ready. Walk you out?”
“Sure. Give me a moment to say goodbye to Sammy and I’ll meet you in the hall.” She turns as the doctor exits and gives Sammy a hug and kiss on the cheek. “Love you, bro. We’re heading out now, but I’ll be back in a week, okay? I’m sure Gunner will, too.”
He looks up at me and I clutch his hand in a loose man-grip. “I’ll be back with Shy, man. Don’t do anything with those nurses I wouldn’t do.” This sparks a laugh, and he gives my hand a squeeze before turning it loose.
“Won’t. Same to you with my sister.” For a minute I’m speechless, but then I remember that Sammy was never dumb. He always knew I had feelings for his sister. With a wry smile, I lift my chin in recognition and follow Shiloh out.
She’s already in the hall with the doctor.
“…making great strides, Shiloh. I’m very happy with his progress—” He breaks off at my approach. “Shiloh, would you like to continue this somewhere private?”
Prick, I think.
Confusion crosses Shiloh’s face. “No, this is fine.”
Dr. Adams looks like he swallowed something nasty. “Well, like I was saying last week, I wouldn’t be surprised to see him able to come home, with committed home care, within a month or so.” At Shiloh’s wide smile, he adds, “If he keeps progressing at his current rate.”
“A month! I thought he was doing better, but I had no idea…but what kind of environment will he require?” She breaks off with a sob and I realize that she’s clutching the doctor’s bicep in excitement, her words tumbling out one after another with barely a breath to separate them. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to grab you like that!” She detaches herself and I try to calm the instant anger swirling at the gleam of male interest in his eyes. Then he looks over at me, challenge plain.
“Quite all right,” he murmurs. “Grab away.”
“Uh…” Shiloh flounders, leaning back in discomfort. Her cheeks turn bright red, and if it was me flirting with her, I would work hard to keep that pink stain on those cheeks. In this instance, though, I want to punch someone.
I am over this shit. Stepping into Shiloh, I place my hands on her shoulders and squeeze lightly, my thumbs stroking the back of her neck. Challenge accepted, motherfucker. “Tell us what he needs to be able to come home, doc.” It’s me that asks the question. Even Shiloh seems surprised, giving me a startled look over her shoulder. “I’ll make sure he has everything he needs, Shy.”
Her forehead creases with a small frown but she says nothing, just looks at the doctor. After a beat, he answers. “There’s still a lengthy list of parameters Sammy needs to work through before he’s quite ready, and of course, the home will need to be ready for his physical requirements. One of the things you can do is come more frequently if you’re able, and work with him on some physical therapy that you’ll need to continue with at home.”
“I can do that.”
“Great. Let’s make an appointment, then, to discuss his goals. Stop in with Shelby on your way out and she’ll set you up.”
With an abrupt nod, he turns and strides swiftly down the hall in the opposite direction.
Shiloh turns to look at me and my hands fall away. “Well. That was a weird little pissing contest you two just enjoyed. I think him stomping off down the hall means you won, which is good. I was worried y’all were going to whip something out and ask for a ruler.”
“Whip something out?” I tease, shouldering her as we make our way to the exit. “What’s the matter, dolcezza—can’t say the word?” I lean in close and tuck her hair behind her ear so I can whisper into its delicate shell. “Dick.”
She shoves me. “Stop it!”
I pull her back and nuzzle my face into her ear. “How about this one? Cock.”
“Oh, my word, what are you, twelve?”
My arm around her neck, we wrestle and tease our way out the door and to the car, her sweet giggles ringing down the hall.
31
Shiloh
Later that evening, I head out to Karli’s Kuppa for donuts, knowing I’m going to need carbs in the morning. After the weekend this one has turned into, the fuel will be necessary. It’s been eventful, to say the least. New side hustle, Sammy’s incredible progress, the fuel line, Dr. Adams’ weird posturing—it’s a lot to wrap my head around.
Karli’s is open well into the evening, thank goodness, and tonight is no exception. It stays open until one a.m. on weekends and eleven on school nights. The aging, diner-style coffee shop stays busy, serving breakfast early in the morning, lunch midday, and diner suppers in the evening. Its clientele is a mix of high school students, boomers, and elderly patrons who sit and play checkers or read the paper, attesting to its popularity by their very diversity.
It’s just as busy tonight as it is every other time I’ve ever been in. I missed it when I was away at
college, having to make do with substandard coffee and donuts and burgers that did not come close to Karla’s greasy goodness. I take my place in line, smiling at the group of teenagers who are laughing over something on their phones, and allow my gaze to scan over the groups clustered in the teal green booths and along the bar.
The fluorescent lit menu above the bar draws my attention as we creep forward, and I debate my options. Should I get the maple bacon bar, or the divine tres leches cake? My traditional friend Boston cream, or the rebel upstart smores? Or maybe the caramel crème brûlée crunch. My thighs tremble at the imminent perfect storm of carbs, sugar, and calories, but I don’t care. The heart wants what the heart wants. I’ll take an extra lap around the block later.
“I see some things never change,” a voice murmurs, too close to my ear. Whipping around, I see that it’s Shane Reasor and relax a fraction, stepping away to put more space between us.
“Hi, Shane. I guess we’re both still Karla’s Kuppaholics.”
He shifts from foot to foot. “I don’t ever see that changing. So, how have you been? Did you get your car fixed?”
“I did, yes. And I’ve been okay. Busy.” The line moves forward as the teenagers in front of us step up to take their turn. “You?”
“Same ole, can’t complain. Now that the season’s almost over I’m looking forward to having more free time, though.” Alarm bells ding and I try to think of ways to divert his attention from what I am sure is working up to another request for a date. He has been relentless lately, hanging out by my classroom in the morning, lingering during my planning period unless I close and lock my door. I paste my best disinterested expression on my face.
“That’s great. It looks like it’s been a good season, so far.” I’m not sure why on earth Shane thinks I’d be willing to give him another chance, after what he did when we were seniors.
