That's Not a Thing

by Jacqueline Friedland

  He turns toward the interior of the restaurant, and I start following him just as the hostess passes us again, returning to her post. I raise my eyebrows at her as I set off behind him, as if to say, Suck it, bitch. It reminds me of all the times over the years when other women would hit on Wesley. He was either completely oblivious or totally uninterested in them, but it always left me with a little ego boost, and I can feel myself getting high off those same self-congratulatory fumes right now.

  Except as I turn back and follow Wesley, I see the way he’s walking and the joy seeps straight out of me. He seems to be putting nearly all of his weight on the canes as he limps along. One leg is clearly much weaker than the other, but both are apparently in bad shape. I feel tears springing to my eyes as I watch the awkward upand-down movement. His whole body seems to rise up, shimmy a little, and sink back down between each step. He’s like an ill-equipped sailboat making its way doggedly over dangerously large waves, one after another. I bite down hard in attempt to keep the tears at bay, and I try to distract myself by letting my eyes wander the restaurant. Nobody is paying us much attention. The couples and groups are all engrossed in their meals, their mimosas, one another.

  We finally reach a door at the back of the restaurant that reads EMPLOYEES ONLY. I follow him into a dark hallway where there appears to be a couple of offices and a bathroom. He stops at the first office, a dimly lit room with a glass desk at its center. Two deep black chairs face the desk, and a black sofa sits against one wall. Even though I know it’s sunny outside, it has suddenly become nighttime in this dark space. I look for a light switch as Wesley leans his canes against the side of the desk. He lowers himself with a thump into the chair behind the desk and sighs with relief.

  “Please, sit.” He motions toward the two empty chairs across from him.

  “Want me to get the lights?” I ask, finding the weird purple glow from the funky wall sconces a little too nightclub-ish for this reunion.

  Wesley lets out a loud, exasperated breath. “I didn’t even . . .” He starts over. “Sorry. Yeah. They’re there.” He points toward a panel in the corner.

  I hit a couple of switches and the room lights up, plunging us back into a corporate scene—swanky corporate, but still greatly improved over the strip-club vibe that the dark violet lighting had been creating a moment ago. I lower myself into one of the leather chairs opposite him, keeping my back straight despite the way the seat’s plush middle is calling me to sink deeper.

  “I like what you’ve done with the place,” I say, for lack of a better opener. I glance around at the bachelor pad style of the room—the stark, grid-like metallic shelving covering one wall, a Captain America shield displayed proudly on one of the higher shelves. There are a couple of black-and-white prints on the wall that look like updated versions of Keith Haring art, just trippier. Next to the sofa sits a tall silver halogen lamp that curves at several odd, robotic angles. It’s all very modern and rigid, and not at all how I would have pictured Wesley decorating. “All you’re missing is the animal-print rug.”

  “Oh, this is all Calvin’s,” he says dismissively as he runs the back of his hand along his forehead, as if he’s wiping away sweat. “The guy I sold the restaurant to. We’ve basically made the transition, but I still come in a few times a week, just to . . .” He looks at the ceiling.

  “It’s gotten so much worse already?”

  “No, I’m okay,” he says, sounding a little defensive.

  “But the canes.” I gesture toward the side of the desk, where one dark cane still rests and the other has fallen to the wood floor.

  “Yeah.” He sighs. “I have something called foot drop. My muscles can’t lift the front of my foot the way they’re supposed to.”

  “I know what it is,” I say, thinking back to the many hours I spent researching ALS when I first heard the news. “Both feet?”

  “Only the right so far. But the other leg is weak now, too.”

  “Doesn’t this mean it’s time for a wheelchair? If you fall and get hurt, it will only make everything worse.”

  “No,” he says with finality, his lips closing tightly.

  I start to argue, wishing someone in his life were doing more to help him. “But—”

  He cuts me off. “I can’t. I can’t be coming into this hip restaurant in some big wheelchair, weaving in and out of the tables. Think about that.”

  “You’re not handicapped accessible?” I ask, surprised that the restaurant wouldn’t have been required to make those accommodations for people before opening.

  “No, we are, but I’m just saying they won’t want me in here like that. I was supposed to be the enterprising super-chef rising to stardom, not some gimp knocking his wheelchair into the table legs.”

  “Well, then maybe it’s time to do something else. Maybe it’s time to stop coming in.”

  “Don’t you get it, Mer?” He lifts up, like he’s going to stand, but then slumps back into his chair. “This is all I have now. After you, I made this . . . this . . .” He gestures into the room, as if to indicate the restaurant, the cooking. “This is my life. If I stop coming, then that’s the end of all of it, of everything.”

  “It’s not all you have. You have me,” I say. I’m not sure exactly what I mean, except that I know that I want to be there for him, to help him however I can.

  “No, I don’t,” he answers, the anger in his voice growing. “I have an empty house in Irvington. And while you’re off with your new fiancé, living the life you were meant to have with me, I’ll be sitting in my dad’s old Barcalounger, watching bad TV, and waiting until I get sick enough to move into a hospital so that I don’t have to be alone anymore.”

  “No!” I shout back, devastated by the picture he has painted, devastated by his regrets.

  He looks back at me, a mix of challenge and defeat in his eyes as he cocks his head.

  “I refuse to accept that,” I add, as I stand.

  “Okay, Miss Fix-It, what other option do I have?” The tension in the room is billowing, but I thrive on this, the push and pull that I’ve always had with this beautiful, withering man.

  “Well,” I stall, looking away from him. I shove my hands onto my hips and roll my eyes back toward myself as I struggle to concoct a plan.

  “Yeah,” he says when I don’t offer more. “Exactly.” He absently begins opening and closing his fist again, like he did the last time I saw him. I notice his movements seem slower this time.

  “Look,” he continues, more calmly, “I don’t mean to get belligerent. It’s really nice that you came to see how I am. I didn’t mean to freak out on you. It’s hard to remember that I have to behave politely around you, to maintain a respectful impartiality or whatever. It doesn’t feel like we’re so far apart, though, like years have passed since we were together.”

  I know what he means. When I’m standing in front of him, everything is as fresh in my mind as if it happened only days ago. All of it—the beginning, the awful end, everything in between. Except so much is different now. I remind myself that Wesley is no longer my most important person. That title has to belong to Aaron. Aaron, who has invited me into his life, into his heart, his home. As I feel the urge to move toward Wesley, to protect him in any way I can, guilt creeps into my limbs, little pinpricks locking my feet where I stand. But this is what Aaron wants, I remind myself. He wants me to help, to take care of Wes during this time. And then I have the answer.

  “It doesn’t have to be like that,” I say, a new energy taking hold of me. “I know what you should do. What we should do.”

  He sits silently, looking across the desk at me, waiting for me to continue.

  “You can move in with us. It’s perfect. We have a second bedroom that’s empty. You can stay for as long as you want.”

  “Us?” he asks. “You and your fiancé?”

  “It’s perfect,” I say again. “You’ll have all the conveniences of the city, instead of being out in the ’burbs. You won’t b
e alone, so if you need something, you’ll have people to help you. And Aaron’s a doctor!” I nearly shout, as I realize this added benefit. Never mind that neonatal surgeons don’t usually deal in ALS; his medical training could still come in handy.

  Wesley regards me silently for a moment and then squints, like he’s trying to see me better. “You’re joking, right?” His lip ticks up on one side.

  “Not even a little.” I shake my head.

  “Right.” His voice is ripe with skepticism. “And this will be just what Dr. Aaron wants, too, right—his fiancée’s old flame shacking up with them? Thanks for the suggestion. I know you mean well, but I think you’re entirely insane.” He gives me a genuine smile, and I melt a little inside.

  “Do you at least have a wheelchair lined up?” I ask, relenting. “I know they can take a long time to get, and you should have it ready for when you need it.”

  He nods. “I do, actually. I’m going straight to motorized. The way I see it, if I’m strong enough to use my arms to push a chair, I’m strong enough to balance on my canes. So, basically, no wheelchair until my arms go, too.”

  “That’s so dumb,” I tell him, affection taking hold of me, grabbing at my whole body so intensely that I feel like it’s even clouding my vision. “Can I at least come back and visit you? Make sure you’re doing okay?”

  “Of course.” He nods up at me, and I feel like we are genuinely connecting for the first time this decade. The relief I feel at penetrating his force field is intense, like I can finally let out a breath I’ve been holding since he left.

  He glances over at his ebony canes, and I quickly duck down to retrieve the one that’s fallen to the floor beside of the desk, and then the other.

  “And please think about using a chair,” I say as he begins to stand, using the armrests of the desk chair for more support than he should. “I don’t want our next visit to be in a hospital.”

  “I like knowing that there will be a next visit,” he says as he takes the canes from my hand, his fingers lingering against mine. A shiver of electricity runs through my body, and what I feel from his touch is definitely not guilt.

  THAT NIGHT, I’M drizzling balsamic glaze on slices of fresh mozzarella when I hear Aaron’s key in the door. The timing of his shift at the hospital prevented us from having dinner together, but I’ve gotten into the habit of making a small bite to share even when he gets home late. Somehow, eating together in the evening feels intimate, homey, like we’re a family. I’m trying to get into the spirit of my upcoming role as Mrs. Aaron Rapp, wife of the illustrious Dr. Rapp. I think about all those yoga instructors and motivational speakers who insist that the physical act of smiling can boost your mood, even if you have to force the expression onto your face. I know my feelings for Aaron aren’t forced, that I’m not preparing this cheese platter for him in an effort to mimic emotions I don’t feel. It’s just that after each time I’ve been with Wesley, I have to dig deeper to locate my attachment to Aaron, and I don’t want to lose my way or forget what’s important to me.

  I walk out from the galley kitchen with the plate of cheese and greet Aaron as he drops his leather messenger bag near the door. He’s still wearing his powder-blue scrubs, which is unusual for him. I worry that it was a rough day at the hospital, that a baby died. I feel a flicker of annoyance that I’m going to have to play therapist for the devastated doctor who couldn’t save a life today, and then I hate myself for having that thought.

  “Why the scrubs?” I ask.

  He looks down at his body, as though he’s forgotten what he’s wearing. “Oh, nothing. A surgery ran late, and I didn’t want to waste time changing before I got home to you.”

  Oh. Right. Well, I just suck.

  He walks toward me and grabs a disk of mozzarella off the plate in my hand, pecking me on the cheek with his warm lips before putting the entire piece of cheese into his mouth.

  “Hey,” I protest. “You’re messing up my display. This is meant to be enjoyed with wine. And maybe even a fork. Come, sit.”

  I place the platter on the wooden coffee table and scamper back to the kitchen for the red wine I opened moments ago.

  “Did you see Wesley?” Aaron calls out from the living room.

  Well, I guess there won’t be any beating around the bush today. “Yeah, hang on.” I’m stalling, unsure how much I want to share

  But then I walk out of the kitchen and see Aaron with his feet up on the coffee table, the expression on his broad face tolerant, collaborative, even, as he waits for me to answer. As usual, the comfort that I feel in his presence takes hold and I just want to unload, to share my feelings with him, to lean on someone. It’s probably unfair of me. It’s definitely unfair of me, but I need to talk through my feelings.

  “He looks terrible.” Well, not his face, I think. I place two bulbous wineglasses on the coffee table and sit down next to Aaron, my hip pushing into his. I pour us each a copious amount as I continue. “He’s already hobbling around on two canes. I don’t understand it. I thought ALS was slow in how it progresses. It’s barely been a couple months since I saw him last, and already he’s starting to fall apart.” I can feel myself looking to Aaron for answers, for some sort of emotional foothold.

  He sighs as he leans forward to pick up his wine, as if it genuinely dismays him to hear that Wesley isn’t doing well. “ALS is like that. Some people have good luck and the disease moves slowly. For other people, not so much. It’s one of those conditions with little rhyme or reason to it.”

  “Do you think it’s his fault for not getting diagnosed soon enough? Like, maybe getting on medicine sooner might have slowed the progression?” I ask, feeling a little desperate for a direction in which to cast blame.

  “Maybe.” He shrugs. “There’s no way to know.” He hands me the other wineglass, then takes another piece of cheese from the platter. We’re both quiet as he chews.

  I break the silence as I slump back onto the couch. “I just feel so bad.” The taste of the wine is bitter against my tongue. “He doesn’t have anyone. He’s taking Ubers out to his parents’ empty house in Westchester every night and then Ubering back into the city when he wants to go to the restaurant. Oh, and he sold it, the restaurant, to someone who may totally ruin its vibe once Wesley’s completely out of the picture.” He must have made a killing on the sale, so at least he’s got some funds.

  “It’s just about the worst story I’ve ever heard, and I see a lot of ugly,” Aaron says.

  I look toward the dark night outside his oversize windows, twinkling city lights framing the view, as I absorb the weight of Aaron’s words.

  “It’s like he’s cursed,” Aaron continues. “Losing his parents, then you, then his health and his restaurant. I just . . .” He pauses, and I can’t guess what he’s thinking. “I’m glad you’re there for him. It’s the right thing to do.” I get the sense that he’s speaking to himself as much as to me, trying to convince us both.

  “I had an idea that maybe is a little too crazy, but I wanted to get your opinion.”

  He raises his dark eyebrows and nods, waiting.

  “I was thinking we should offer to have Wesley stay here with us.” My words are coming in a rush. “In the spare bedroom. Obviously, it would only be temporary, until he needs to go into a facility or whatever. But I think it would really improve his quality of life for the time he has left.”

  Aaron blinks a couple of times and shoots me a good-natured smirk, like he thinks I’m joking around.

  “No, seriously.” I hold on to his dark eyes with mine, trying to show him that I mean it.

  He squints at me for a second and then asks, “Are you insane?”

  I don’t tell him that Wesley also squinted at me and called me insane.

  “No, I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I really think it makes sense. I hate to say it, but I think the two of you would really get along well, and we are kind of the only people he has. It’d be a real mitzvah,” I add, playing on the Jewish
phrase for good deeds, the expression Aaron’s mother uses so often when she’s talking to him. Invite Dad to a Yankees game; it’d be a real mitzvah. You should call and check on your brother in Colorado; it’d be a real mitzvah. Help me with the dishes; it’d be a real mitzvah. Now I’m just adding, Let me shack up with my ex-boyfriend; it’d be a real mitzvah.

  Aaron looks away from me and fixates on the television across from us, which is not currently on. He stares at the dark screen, and I can see him processing my suggestion as clearly as if he were a kid disassembling a Lego project, piece by piece, to see how it works.

  “You just want to put him up in the spare bedroom?” he asks, without anger but with palpable curiosity.

  I nod, and I can see his next question forming already. “And who’s going to take care of him?”

  Loud sirens pass beneath the window while I process Aaron’s question. “Well, he doesn’t really need anyone yet,” I offer. “I mean, he’s still living entirely on his own. When he starts to really need help, we can both help him. Until we can’t.”

  “And you think he’s going to just come and live with your new fiancé, like he’ll think that’s an improvement over his current situation?”

  “No, he already said he doesn’t want to do that, but I thought if you asked him, instead of me, he might go for it.”

  “Wait, you already suggested this to him?” His head whips toward me. “Without talking to me?”

  Shit.

  “Well, I thought of it when I went to see him and just kind of blurted it out, but I would never have actually finalized it without getting your blessing. Of course not.”

  “Jesus, Mer. You can’t just invite some guy to come live with us. Your ex-fiancé, the great love of your life, who has been too precious to even discuss with me until recently. You just ask him to come and live in your spare bedroom. Christ, maybe you want me to take the spare room so he can share the bedroom with you. Better yet, maybe I should just get out altogether. Is that what you want?”