That's Not a Thing

by Jacqueline Friedland

  “No, Aaron, no!” My voice has risen to match his. “He was a big part of my life, okay? And he’s dying. Wanting to help him has nothing to do with my feelings for you. Of course, I don’t want to replace you.” I argue hard, hoping that I actually believe what I’m saying.

  “I don’t know, Mer,” he says, more quietly, resignation in his voice. “Am I just the consolation prize because the guy you really want is dying?”

  “No!” I shout back at him, as if what he has suggested is entirely ridiculous, as if it’s never crossed my mind, as if I haven’t been wondering the exact same thing myself for months already. “How could you even say that? What I had with Wesley is so long over and done with, and it doesn’t begin to compare with what I have with you. Yes, Wesley was a huge part of my life, and I loved him, for sure, but it was an immature love based on excitement and fun, not on a true commitment to be with each other through the hardest days. It was nothing like what we have,” I repeat.

  “Why?” he asks, challenging me. “What do we have?”

  “Now you know you’re just fishing for compliments.” I’m trying to lighten the mood, but he just stares back at me, waiting. “We have”—I struggle to find the right words—“a deeper sense of sharing, of acceptance of each other’s flaws. We have the kind of love that makes the entire world seem like a better place. Like a place where you want other people to feel happy because it’s not fair that you should get to be so content while others suffer. We have the kind of love that makes us want to be better people, to do mitzvahs.” As I finish speaking, I realize that I mean every word of what I’ve said, that I’ve been allowing my passion for Wesley to taint my recent perception of Aaron, but that my college boyfriend kind of can’t hold a candle to the guy sitting beside me. The guilt that I’ve been pushing away suddenly comes at me like a tidal wave, and I feel sick at how disloyal I’ve been, even if only inside my own head.

  I reach out to Aaron and kiss him. He’s stiff for a moment, rigid, but then he relents, softening and kissing me back. As our tongues mingle and I breathe in his warm, clean scent, I feel my body react, but I pull back because I have more to say.

  “I’m so sorry. Forget it.” The words tumble out of me. “Forget I ever suggested that he move in. I just want you to be happy. To be comfortable. It was a stupid suggestion, a dumb idea that I never should have voiced aloud. Just forget it, please.”

  “No, stop it,” he tells me, reaching out to push a strand of wayward hair behind my ear. “It wasn’t a dumb suggestion. Unexpected, maybe. A little unconventional of you, for sure. But it’s part of what I love about you, your consistent desire to help people, your ability to look beyond the confines of standard behavior. I think we should do it.”

  “What?” I feel myself blanch. “No, seriously, forget it.” Now I don’t want it. I don’t want Wesley to be in such close proximity to us, clouding my judgment like he has since the day I found him back in New York, blurring my love for Aaron. I regret that I ever mentioned it.

  “No,” he says, getting more animated, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think it’s actually starting to make sense to me. It’ll be a big help to Wesley if he doesn’t have to commute, and my medical skills might be at least somewhat useful. It can delay his need to go into a facility, give him some quality of life, like you said. And then you’ll never have regrets. Besides, it’s not fair for me to be jealous when I know that the competition is temporary. Sorry,” he adds hastily. “But seriously, even if you were to fall for him all over again, it’s not like you’re going to run off with him, and I know you love me, too. I know you’ll remember that in the end, and who am I to say you shouldn’t have even more love in your life? I’ll talk to him, make it happen.”

  I’m silent as I try to digest the way our roles have reversed during this conversation.

  “Here’s a thought,” he adds as he picks up his wine-glass and takes a hefty sip. “Maybe when things get really bad for Wesley, it’ll inspire you to quit your job, take care of him full time until it becomes too complicated.”

  “What is it with you and my job?” I snap. “This isn’t 1950, where your wife is supposed to stay home ironing all day.”

  “I know that.” He laughs lightly. “I just want you to have a job you enjoy, a place you look forward to going, and Harrison, Whittaker is definitely not that.”

  “So, instead of sitting through depositions and document review, I should nurse my dying ex from dawn to dusk?”

  “Look, you’re the one who suggested we do this.” Aaron holds up his wide hands in surrender, like he’s retreating. “Now that you’ve convinced me, you can’t act like I’m all crazy for thinking through some of the logistics of it.”

  That may be true, except now I think it was a terrible idea. And I don’t know how to tell him that we should put the kibosh on the whole thing, that I shouldn’t be allowed such unfettered access to Wesley because it will make me dismiss my feelings for Aaron. And then I wonder if I’m being selfish, making everything about me, yet again. Aaron is right. Even if I do fall for Wesley all over again, it’s not like we have a future together. And Wesley does need people. A place to stay. People to care whether he’s had a meal or fallen down.

  “I just want to do what you want to do,” I relent. If Aaron is happy, I tell myself, then I will be happy, too.

  “Okay, I’m calling him tomorrow, and we’ll make this happen. In the meantime, can you please come into the bathroom with me already and help me shower off the hospital?” He finishes the remainder of his wine in one big gulp and pulls me up from my seat before leading me toward the hot, relentless cleansing that I need.

  Chapter Eighteen

  June 2017

  “That’s the last of them,” Aaron announces as he pushes Wesley’s suitcase against the wall with the others and closes the door behind himself.

  Wesley wheels out of the spare bedroom in his manual wheelchair, the one that he finally started using after Aaron went to see him. I’m not sure what Aaron said to convince him about the wheelchair, or about moving in with us, but clearly Wesley finds Aaron more persuasive than he does me.

  “The place is great,” Wesley tells us both, his eyes still roaming around the airy space, lingering on artwork, photographs. “Thank you so much for convincing me to come here.”

  We’re lucky that Aaron has a loft-style apartment with wide doorways and generally open spaces. It won’t provide much by way of privacy for the duration of Wesley’s stay, but it will certainly make it easier for him to maneuver in his chair.

  “I’ll bring your suitcases to your room,” I say, grabbing the handle of the black rolling duffel closest to me. I’m not sure why I didn’t process sooner how incredibly uncomfortable this situation would be for me.

  “Let me give you the grand tour,” Aaron says, a little facetiously. Even though we have a big apartment by New York City standards, it’s still a relatively compact space.

  “Sure thing,” Wesley says as he wheels behind Aaron, following him toward the kitchen. I begin to realize that the only one who feels flustered seems to be me.

  I watch them for a second before taking the luggage toward the bedroom. Aaron looks like a walking advertisement for vitamin supplements or one of those horrible nutrient-dense smoothies. He’s wearing worn, dark jeans that hug his body and a simple gray T-shirt that showcases his broad back and wide biceps. His dark hair is rich and thick, the little bit of kink in it adding to its boyish charm. As he disappears around the wall to the kitchen, my eyes travel down to Wesley, who is moving slowly in the wheelchair, probably still adjusting to the bulk of it, minding the walls and any obstacles as he rolls. Though he is narrower than Aaron, he still looks too strong to be sitting in a wheelchair. His shoulders are straight, his own arm muscles still relatively toned. Not hulking like Aaron’s, and surely smaller than they once were, but he hardly looks a man who is progressing steadily toward death. I wonder for a moment if the weeks of using canes are what
have kept his arm muscles robust for longer, and then I turn toward the room that will be Wesley’s quarters, rolling the duffel behind me.

  After lifting the duffel onto the bed to make it easier for him to reach, I make two more trips for Wesley’s other bags. As I drop the last tote onto the thick gray duvet, I wonder if I ought to unpack for him. We really haven’t set any parameters on how this arrangement will work, and I don’t have a clue how self-sufficient, or how dependent, Wesley is at this point.

  I hear the guys making their way toward the bedrooms, joking and laughing with each other like the best of friends. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me. Aaron has always had a way of connecting with people especially quickly.

  “Hey, Wes,” I say as I emerge from the bedroom and meet them coming toward me in the hallway, “do you want me to unpack your stuff for you?”

  “Nah, that’s okay. I can still handle moving some shirts around. I just use the lower drawers.” He offers a self-deprecating smile.

  “Oh, okay; then I’ll leave you to it.” I head toward my laptop in the front room, happy to seek distraction on the Internet.

  Aaron follows Wesley into his bedroom, and though I can no longer hear the words they are saying, the cadence of their voices through the walls tells me that they are continuing to chat at very friendly pace.

  I don’t know what I was thinking, suggesting that Wesley move in with us. I shouldn’t be around him. It’s bad. I’m bad. Bad, bad, bad.

  And now what? Are we going to all three eat dinner together every night? Until Wes is so sick that he has to be spoon-fed by an aide? Speaking of aides, I remember that I wanted to discuss the issue of professional assistance with Wesley, figure out what kind of help he needs, when we should hire someone. Lord knows I do not want to be the one wiping his ass after he uses the toilet.

  I type a search into the computer: home health aides for ALS NYC. One ad after another pops up at the top of the screen for in-home health care. I scroll down until I find the first non-sponsored link. I discover a company called Bayada. Its website says that the company has worked with the ALS Association to develop the one and only certified training program for in-home healthcare aides working with ALS patients. I wonder how that can be, that only one organization has a reputable training program for this service. I continue poking around on the website. I click on the link that says Assistive Care Services. My heart sinks while I read: Assistance with communication devices, such as symbol and picture boards, dressing and grooming assistance, safe bathing and toileting. The list goes on and on, but I can’t stomach thinking about all the ways in which Wesley is going to unravel. I hit the BACK button and start reading about the company’s other services. When my eyes hit on the word hospice at the bottom of the page, I freeze for a moment, trying to internalize that Wesley is actually, truly, imminently dying.

  I hear Aaron making his way back toward the front room, and I quickly hit the X in the top right corner of the screen, returning to the tab with my emails on it.

  “So,” he says, as he approaches from behind me and puts his hands down on either side of me on the desk. He kisses the side of my head mildly. “How about if I take you out for Thai food? We can give Wesley a little privacy to settle in, and I can get some date time with my girl?”

  “Yeah, that sounds great.” Breathing some air outside of this hotbed of awkward sounds just right. “Give me five minutes to change.”

  WHEN WE SIT down at a quiet table in the Golden Lotus, our favorite neighborhood Thai place, I can tell that Aaron is excited to discuss something. He’s practically glowing as he unfolds his cloth napkin and places it on his lap. I hope it’s not the Wesley effect. He can do that to people, pump them up, invigorate them with the force of his own internal energy. I can imagine why Aaron would be juiced up after a few hours of basking in Wesley’s attention.

  “I’m so glad we’re doing this,” he starts, and I know that, unfortunately, he’s referring to the arrangement with Wesley, not the fact that we’re eating Thai food together, which is something we do all the time. “I’m not going to lie. It’s weird, and I’m not sure whether I’m comforted or annoyed to see that Wes is actually a pretty stand-up guy.”

  Wes. Aaron is calling him Wes now? What the actual fuck is happening in my life?

  “If things were different,” he continues, “I could see myself being good friends with the guy.”

  “Except that he doesn’t make good friends—he doesn’t do that whole thing.” I notice that my voice is snippy, that I’m feeling annoyance and jealousy that I can’t quite contain.

  “Right. Well.” He sounds nonchalant, unaffected by my attitude. “It gave me a crazy idea, this whole day, this whole chapter of our existence . . .” He’s interrupted by the waitress who comes over to take our order. “The usual?” he asks me, and when I nod, he rattles off our standard choices: vegetable spring rolls, green papaya salad, chicken pad Thai, and beef satay. A beer for him. A house red wine for me.

  “So . . .” he starts again, slowly, after the waitress walks away, like he’s trying not to spook me. “Here’s a thought. Just something I was toying with. What do you think about having a baby?”

  I lower my eyebrows in a lack of understanding before I answer.

  “You know I want kids. We’ve talked about it a million times.” I can’t imagine why we are revisiting the topic at this moment.

  “No, I mean have a baby now.”

  “Now?” I ask. I glance over at the round table of older women beside us, smiling women in their seventies, and I wonder if everything is easier for them, if they are finished with all the drama that pervades the younger years. I wonder if you ever grow up enough that the tensions and complexities abate, that you can get through one freaking meal without having to consider the lifelong implications of your every action.

  “Yeah, now. Just hear me out. Being around Wesley has made me realize how short life is, how unpredictable. One of the experiences I’ve been looking forward to the most is getting to be a parent with you. I know it feels like we’re just starting out and there will be plenty of time for all that, but what if there’s not? Maybe we should be taking our opportunities while they’re there for the taking.”

  “You do know you’ve gotten the progression wrong, the standard sequence? It’s supposed to go marriage first, then kids.” I still don’t really believe he means this, and my flip response shows him as much.

  “I’m not kidding around. It can take couples a really long time to get pregnant, and then, after you wait out the whole pregnancy, babies die. I hate to be morbid, but I see it all the time, babies that lose their grasp on life within just the first few days, the first few hours, couples who decide to start over. We might be able to have a baby nine or ten months from now, but it could just as easily take us years before we actually become parents. Why should we wait—when we know we love each other, when we know we’re in it for the long haul and we have the same end goal?”

  As I breathe in the restaurant’s pervasive smell of peanut sauce, I digest that Aaron actually means what he is saying, and I wonder at his motivation. Is he trying to mark me, impregnate me with his seed, so to speak, in reaction to having Wesley so nearby?

  “I guess what you’re suggesting is kind of sweet,” I say as I parse through ways of firmly closing the lid on this ludicrous idea, “but I don’t think you’ve really given this thought. The logistics of it all. I mean, what, am I supposed to get a maternity wedding dress?”

  “Why not?” He shrugs. “You’ll look hot no matter what we do.”

  “No.” I shake my head and then say it again. “No. I’m shutting this down. It’s an interesting idea, and I applaud you for your creative thinking, but I’ve spent too many years avoiding that whole unwed-and-pregnant thing. I’m not going to change my approach now.”

  This is definitely not something I would ever agree to. I have a quick flash forward to what my poor mother’s face would look like as her daughter walked do
wn the aisle with a big bulge under her white wedding dress. It probably wouldn’t even be white. They’d make me wear red or something, to mark my shame. I bristle, thinking that Aaron clearly doesn’t know me at all if he thinks he could convince me to do something so avant-garde. How can it be that the man I’m meant to marry is so oblivious to who I am?

  “Okay, fine,” he says. “I know this is not something you would ever normally go for, that you’re never the first one to get in line for the unconventional.”

  Oh.

  “But having Wesley move in with us is pretty unconventional, isn’t it?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Just keep it in the back of your mind,” he suggests. “Let it simmer.”

  With that, he changes the subject and starts telling me about the latest political saga at the hospital. Two of his fellow neonatologists, Dr. Pam and Dr. Spencer, as I call them, are always bickering, angling to get the better, more prestigious surgeries in their rat race to be the next department head. If I had to guess, though, my money would be on Aaron getting the spot when it opens. Present impulsive suggestion aside, he is generally the most level-headed doctor in the group, and completely meticulous—not to mention, he’s totally brilliant. Every time I voice my opinion that I think he’ll be the next chair, he waves my comments away. He’s not gunning for it, like his peers. He’s happy with the position he has now, content to be doing a job he loves and improving the outcomes for as many infants as he can.

  When we walk back into the apartment, it’s only a little after 9:00 p.m., but the lights are off and Wesley’s door is closed. When Aaron hits the switch to illuminate the hallway, I see a sticky note hanging on Wesley’s door.

  A loose scrawl reads, “Turned in early. Thanks again for everything.”

  I’m surprised. Wesley was always a night owl. But things change, I remind myself. His condition must take a lot out of him, and he needs a different kind of rest now. I try not to think about it. I don’t want to spend every waking minute being sad about Wesley’s fading vitality. Aaron and I head into our room quietly, closing the door behind us.