by JD Chambers
At first, I thought the argument was about me, but what wouldn’t I come back from? That’s the part I don’t get, so maybe they’re talking about one of Dad’s employees or friends or something.
Each day sees progress, no matter how tiny. Eventually, I’m allowed solid food to eat instead of soup and Jell-O. After four days, Mom insists that I take a shower. She bought a seat for me, which is good because I think I’d fall over if I tried to stand for that long. The doctor wanted me to get out and walk a little each day, but I haven’t felt like it. Whether it’s because I’m weak from the trauma, weak from lack of food, or weak from muscle atrophy, the shower seat is an embarrassing necessity.
Once I finally make it back to bed without help, there are fresh sheets and the window has been cracked open.
“It was getting a little rank in here. Sorry, sweetheart.”
The fresh air cools my shower-damp skin and lets the scent of the neighbor’s honeysuckle into the room. I stare out the window as Mrs. Walters next door sneaks to the mailbox in her robe with her hair wrapped in a towel. She does an excited little hop at whatever box she found there, and rushes back inside.
Mom punches my pillows for me as I crawl back into bed.
“I’ll be right back with your lunch.”
Whatever. I’m not that hungry. Getting up and out of bed did get the rusty gears of my brain turning a little, though.
“Where’s my phone?” I look around, but there’s nothing here to suggest that any part of my Fort Collins life has transitioned back to Longmont with me.
Mom hovers at the door, looking away from me and into the hallway, when she answers. “It got ruined in the accident. Don’t worry. When you’re feeling up to it, we’ll go get you a new one.”
The accident. That’s how she keeps referring to the mugging. As an accident. As if I accidentally tripped and fell stomach-first into a flying bullet. As if I accidentally hit my head against my own car door. At some point during my hospital stay, a police detective came and took my statement, but I could tell by the look in her eyes that it’s a long shot that they’ll ever find the guy.
“What about work? Do people know what happened?”
I’m ashamed to admit it’s the first time I’ve thought of Ted and leaving him in the lurch the way I did. Not that it’s my fault, but I still feel bad.
“Yes, we notified your employer. Don’t worry. It’s all been taken care of.”
It takes a second, or a minute, to muster the courage to ask, but I do because I can tell she’s in a hurry to be rid of me. Not rid of me as in out of the house, but rid of me and my awkward questions.
“What about Arthur?”
Mom’s face flushes and I’m afraid she’s going to shut the door without responding. But it’s little relief when she finally does speak. “I’m sure your friends know where you work and word has gotten around. Now get some rest.”
Not a second goes by that I don’t think of Arthur. I understand that I couldn’t notify him about the accident, and Mom said that only family was allowed to visit at the hospital because of my condition. But I wonder if he’s missing me as much as I miss him. My chest aches when I think of the tag that no longer hangs from my neck. And shame burns my cheeks to think I almost died trying to retrieve it. Arthur would be pissed if he knew I risked my life for a stupid piece of metal. Except it’s not stupid. The hole in my chest, one put there by Arthur’s absence and not a bullet, proves that.
If only I had my phone, I could text him the address and see if he could visit sometime. I don’t know how long I’ll be recuperating here, but I have a feeling it’s a lot longer than I’d like.
Then again, I’m not sure I want him to see me like this.
“Come, sit in the sun room, David. Soak up some Vitamin D.”
Against my better judgement – that she’s trying so hard to get me out of bed and decent sends up all sorts of red flags – I pull on some sweats and shuffle into the sun room. Mom has made some peach tea and brings it out on a tray, like I’m a houseguest. It’s weird, but I do like peach tea, so there’s that.
The doorbell rings and my entire body tenses. Oh god, it’s going to be Emily, isn’t it? Maybe I should tell my mom I have a boyfriend, if I still even have a boyfriend, and get her off my back once and for all.
Instead, a much larger shadow than Emily would cast looms over me, and I lose myself. Glass shatters around me as my drink slips from my hands. My field of vision goes dark at the edges, and my brain tries to tunnel as deep into itself as possible.
I don’t know how much time passes before my brain turns back on, but Sawyer sits on the wicker lounger across from me. He talks to someone, but his eyes never leave me. Oh, my mom. He offers to help her clean. That’s nice.
And then I realize that the cleaning is the glass I dropped.
“Sit down, Mom. I’ll clean this up.”
“Dave? What happened? Don’t do that!” She has a dustpan and small broom and sweeps around my chair.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what that was.”
My arms still shake from the adrenaline coursing my system. I risk another glance at Sawyer, who still watches my every move.
“I’ve seen my cousin have a panic attack like that,” he says. “After he returned home from Afghanistan. He could be set off by the weirdest things.”
I remember that cousin. Probably the only one in our group who wasn’t a total asshat. It doesn’t surprise me he decided to serve his country, but it’s sad that such extensive trauma happened to such a decent guy.
“You think I have PTSD?”
Sawyer shrugs. “It would make sense.”
“Of course Dave doesn’t have PTSD.” Mom clucks her tongue as she empties out the dustpan and starts mopping up the spilled liquid. “He’s just not used to getting out of bed. I told you, honey. You need to exercise every day. It isn’t healthy to stay cooped up in bed like that.”
“Okay, Mom.”
I don’t have the strength to argue with her. Now that whatever that weird episode was is over, I feel like I’ve been hit by a freight train. Sawyer takes his leave, carefully staying out of reach and within my field of vision. I can tell he pities me but is glad to have an excuse to wash his hands of me. I don’t think I’ll be seeing Sawyer again.
19
Arthur
When my phone rings and the screen shows the call is from my mom, I panic. She’s never called me before. Maybe years ago when I was in college, and we had to make travel arrangements for me to return over summer break or something, but even then, it was usually via email. And eventually I stopped returning home. The half a night they would take off didn’t seem worth it, especially when Andrew also stopped returning home and Westley would rather hang out with friends. Those movies where families gather around trees or dinner tables for big family feasts used to make me so sad that I would never be a part of something like that, but then I grew up and realized that my family could be what I made it. But no matter how hard I tried to make it into something else, even my made-family was never more than Terry and Rohit.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Arthur.”
“Mom.”
“We are going to be coming to Westley’s family weekend at school in a month. We’d like to see you too.”
My legs stop holding me up and I sit down hard on a dining room chair.
Not once have they ever come to Colorado. Not to help me move for college. Not to help Westley move for college. Never. First they call Westley out of the blue, and now this? I have no words.
“Okay.”
Apparently, I have one word.
“You can drive to Boulder that weekend. That way, you can also invite your friend. He’s somewhere around there, from what I understand.”
Slow down. My brain tries to cling to the words, but I feel like I’m in one of those windy money grab machines. If I try hard enough, I can manage to cling to one thought, but the second I go for more,
it flitters out of my grasp and swirls around me, making me dizzy. My parents are coming to Colorado. They want to see me. And my friend.
“Dave?”
“If you aren’t sure of your own friend’s name, then maybe you aren’t as upset as I thought.”
“It’s Dave. And he’s more than a friend. I just didn’t know that you knew about him. Or that I was upset.”
How and why are as out of reach as those whirling dollar bills. This is my mom checking up on me. That’s like grasping for ten-thousand-dollar bills, if they made that kind of currency.
“Westley told me. He’s worried about you.”
I will admit that I haven’t been myself lately. And despite his heavy workload, Westley has driven down almost every weekend to check on me. It’s been unusual. And nice. Like, maybe my made-family and my existing family have started to mesh just a little, daring me to hope for more at a time when I’m struggling to hope for anything at all.
“Oh.”
“Then it’s settled. I will email you the dates and times. You can bring your friend.”
This is so like my mom. It’s not settled, but that doesn’t fit in with her preconceived notions of how to handle things. Because I’m not a “take-charge” kind of guy like my brother, she steamrolls me. But even she can’t conjure what she wants out of thin air. “I don’t even know where he lives now. His parents are unlisted since his dad is a judge.”
“No one is truly unlisted. That’s ridiculous. I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
“Is that why you called?”
“Yes. To notify you of the arrangements for family weekend. And to check on you.”
“I’m fine,” I say out of habit. Ten times a day, at least, I get asked how I’m doing. I don’t even think before giving my response anymore.
“You are far from fine, Arthur.” She’s not wrong, but I have no idea how she can tell, other than what Westley told her. “A mother knows.”
Huh. Maybe she does have a weird sixth mom sense. Ever since Dave got hurt, I’ve been a total mess. I honestly don’t know what to do about it. Ted has tried to reach him. I’ve tried to reach him. He hasn’t responded to phone calls, texts, or emails. There’s a part of me that worries that he’s still so bad off that he can’t do any of those things. But the hospital wouldn’t have released him if he weren’t on the mend. And we know the hospital released him because Ted called every day, hoping to hear different news and finally be told that we could see Dave. Instead, he was eventually told that David Taylor was no longer a patient.
After hanging up with my mom, I text Terry. He’s been bugging me to go out, and I haven’t been feeling it. I’m still not, but I want his take on the whole parental about-face, and I know that at the club is the only way I’m going to get it from him.
“Maybe your folks are getting a divorce,” Terry says between sips of his cocktail. “That’s what my parents did. They were never in the same room at the same time for years. Then suddenly one day, they are both there, asking me to stay at home for a family dinner. And whammo!”
“I guess …”
“Don’t listen to him,” Rohit says, returning with the beer he just retrieved from the bar. “They probably just realized that they are missing out on your lives and decided to fix it. It doesn’t have to be any big thing.”
“But you don’t understand. They’ve never been like this before. Ever.”
Rohit shrugs. “Then maybe one of them is dying.”
Terry smacks his shoulder so loud that several people standing around the table behind ours turn to look. “Obviously, that’s why I went with divorce instead. It’s not as harsh. Asshole.”
I glare at them both. This was a mistake.
“Psst, Arthur. Nine o’clock.”
“What?”
“Hot guy checking you out at your nine.”
“I don’t care.”
“Come on,” Terry says, downing his drink and tugging at my hand. “Let’s dance. Get a hot body to grind on, and you’ll forget all about your troubles.”
“Is that what you think? That I can just forget about Dave that easily?”
“Why not? He moved away. He’s probably moved on. You need to too. Go fuck him out of your system.”
I slam my drink down on the table and step toward Terry, hands balled into fists by my sides. Rohit steps forward too, slightly in front of his man, but Terry doesn’t cower. He puffs up his chest and actually moves closer, until we’re almost nose to nose.
“Don’t you fucking talk about Dave like that. Dave is special. There will never be anyone like him again, ever. And he might have moved, but I know he hasn’t moved on. Just like I haven’t.”
“Then fucking fight for him. If he means that much to you, stop moping around like a teenaged girl, get off your ass, and fucking fight for him!” Terry’s finger pokes me in the chest with each sentence, and I realize I’ve been played.
Rohit realizes it too, and steps back to our table, picking up his beer like his two best friends didn’t almost come to blows.
“Whatever. I’m out of here.”
I head home, shower to get the club smell off, and climb into bed where Dave’s pillow awaits.
I’ve tried to sort through the muddle in my head countless times before. Each time it all comes down to this. My brain tells me that Dave would have reached out if he were still interested. My heart tells me not to give up hope. Now Terry tells me to fight for him, and I would, if only I knew how. Somehow, I don’t think my heart fighting my brain counts.
I’m stuck in this conundrum of wishing and hoping, but no practical way of achieving. I’ve never felt so helpless, and not for the first time, I clutch Dave’s pillow and soak it with my tears.
20
Dave
Over the next month, my body heals, but my panic attacks get worse.
Mom doesn’t set them off, but Dad has every time we’ve been in the same room. Maybe it’s because his whole body radiates tension and anger. It rolls off him in waves, and I can’t tell if it’s because of his job or because of the election or because of me.
One night I join them at the dinner table, and Dad’s sheer presence as he storms in the room sets off another attack. When they finally realize I am frozen in place, Mom comes around and lays her hand on my shoulder. I flinch so hard that it shoves my plate off the table.
Mom helps me back to my room and brings me a new plate of food on a lap tray.
“Didn’t the hospital give you the name of a therapist?” I ask her once the panic has subsided enough to function.
“Therapists are just overpaid hippies,” Dad says from the doorway, making me jump and fight the panic all over again. “You need a dose of reality, not more coddling. Get him out of the house, Marjorie. That’s an order.”
Before he leaves, he points a finger at me.
“And this will be your last meal in this room. From now on, you will eat at the table with us; I don’t care if you faint from it. You need to stop being so weak.”
Mom convinces me to walk outside with her each day, although I do it more for her than for myself. After Dad ordered it, I don’t want him coming down on her for my failures. Unfortunately, this means I know intimate details of the goings-on of their entire neighborhood. Mom is lonely, not surprising since Dad has been at home maybe a sum total of five hours in the time I’ve been here, but that means that she’s rather invested in everyone’s business. And in sharing mine.
I’ve learned that Mrs. Hay down the street has a son who recently got engaged to a girl that no one in the neighborhood thinks is good enough. Translation: she isn’t Caucasian. Deena Swearingen, one street over, lost her husband last year to cancer, and to everyone’s shock, she’s already dating again. And Mr. Walters next door lost his job a few months ago, and the whole neighborhood has been making consolation casseroles for them.
As September turns into October, the neighborhood changes colors and I need a jacket for our walks. It’s hard to b
elieve so much time has passed, but with well over a month in the hospital and now over a month and a half in Longmont, my thoughts have finally started to turn from the despair and isolation of recovery, to wanting to return to my life. Of course, if I was at home, surrounded by Arthur and friends, I might not be in such a hurry. But my parents are driving me up the wall.
Mom tries to get me to go grocery shopping with her because it will do me good to get out of the house, but I refuse, using exhaustion from the walk earlier today as my excuse. Really, I’ve been hit with a case of the stir-crazies, but Mom and shopping do not sound like an effective remedy. The second she’s gone, I go to the kitchen and boot up her laptop that she leaves out on the breakfast table. I access my email and shoot off a message to Ted at his Game Over email.
Ted,
Hey man, I wanted to check in and see how everything is going. Sorry I haven’t been able to contact you earlier. My phone was destroyed during the mugging, and I have yet to get a replacement. I’m doing better, going crazy at my parents’ house. Just wanted to say hi. Hopefully I’ll be back to work soon. If you see Arthur, could you tell him I miss him? If you can get his email so I can send him a note too, that would be awesome. I really miss all you guys.
Dave
I do a web search for Arthur’s bank, in the hope that they have employee emails listed, but of course it’s in vain. Thankfully, I don’t have to wait long for a response from Ted.
Hey Dave,
It’s so good to hear from you, man! We’ve all been so worried about you. Arthur comes in daily to see if there’s any news. Next time, I’ll be sure to get his email and let him know what you said. And let us know your new number as soon as you get a replacement phone. We miss your smiling face.
Your mom said that you wouldn’t be coming back to work, but your job’s still here if you want it. Let me know, because we all want you back. Stay in touch, if possible. We miss you!