The Last Birthday Party

by Gary Goldstein

  She gave Jeremy no directions but, since it was his house and all, he figured it was okay to sit on the couch. He settled in as best he could. Annabelle opened an iPad and made some notes, then looked up at Jeremy.

  “So,” she said.

  “So,” Jeremy echoed.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Honestly?”

  “No, lie to me, because that’s really going to help me help you,” she quipped. That got an unexpected laugh out of Jeremy; Annabelle grinned in return. She took a few more notes, and then fixed her gaze back on the patient.

  Jeremy fidgeted and then said the first thing that came to mind: “My wife left me less than a week ago, and, frankly, I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do.”

  Annabelle was not expecting that, nor was Jeremy.

  “Was that honest enough?”

  Annabelle tapped at her iPad, then took a slug of water from her bottle, which Jeremy now realized had a decal on it that read: “Fuck Cancer.” “Yeah, that was super honest,” the therapist said. “I’m really sorry.” When Jeremy offered no rejoinder, she asked, “Should I be?”

  “In general, probably. But in the specific, hard to say,” he answered, unsure why he was being so open to this person he just met. Maybe it was his way of expressing his disappointment that, except for a four-word text (“Hope you’re adjusting OK”), Cassie hadn’t been in touch since she dropped him off the other day. Her absence spoke volumes, and he needed to hear that, loud and clear.

  “So then you’re dealing with your injury all by yourself?” Annabelle asked, looking around the room as if a caregiver might pop out of the wall.

  “Well, my son and my mother have been in and out to help, but, yeah, I’m pretty much flying solo.” He flexed the fingers of his stiff right hand, trying to work back some circulation.

  Annabelle noticed. She rose and went to Jeremy and, without a word, tore off the Velcro straps that fastened his arm to the abduction pillow. He looked up at her confused.

  “Guess what? You can take your arm out for a spin now and then, loosen it up a bit. Go ahead—give it a little stretch.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I know what you thought,” she said patiently. “But as long as you keep your arm straight out at that 90-degree angle and just gently move it, you’ll be fine. I promise.” Annabelle put her hand over her heart (that’s when Jeremy noticed her wedding band, wondered what her marriage was like) and gave her head an endearing tilt. “Ready?” she asked.

  Jeremy nodded, entranced, and slowly lifted his arm up out of the open straps and carefully stretched it out. He gave a little groan of pleasure. “Oh, my God, this feels so good.” If he wasn’t already so self-conscious, he would have shed a tear of joy.

  “Right?” Annabelle held her hand above his untethered arm to make sure Jeremy didn’t accidentally jerk it up. “You don’t have to completely baby yourself, y’know.”

  “I know—I mean, I guess I do now, but I’m really afraid of doing anything wrong.” He considered that and added, “You could say that’s pretty much my life’s MO.”

  Wait, did he actually believe that? Especially after he clearly did something so wrong, maybe many things wrong, to make Cassie leave. Did he just think he was so careful about things when, in fact, he was sloppy and irresponsible? Look at what happened with that film review. Jeremy rested his arm back atop the brace.

  “Being afraid of doing the wrong thing and actually doing the wrong thing are two different things, wouldn’t you say?” asked Annabelle.

  She re-strapped his arm into the Velcro. Jeremy looked spooked by her prescience. She sat next to him on the couch awaiting an answer.

  “In my case, they’re not mutually exclusive,” he realized. “Or at least I don’t think they are.”

  Annabelle snapped a photo of Jeremy’s sling set-up with her iPad. “Want to hear my life’s MO?”

  He couldn’t begin to guess what his spritely guest would come up with.

  “Life can be a bitch,” she said flatly, “and sometimes, you just have to get out of the fucking way.” She checked herself. “Sorry, that was unprofessional. But you get my drift.” Annabelle, who maybe realized sitting so close to her patient could also seem a tad unprofessional, rose and returned to her original chair.

  “Not unprofessional and probably a good way to look at it,” Jeremy surmised. “Anyway, you don’t need to hear about my problems.”

  “No, I don’t need to. But something tells me they’re connected to all this.” She made a triangular finger sketch of his arm, shoulder, and the brace.

  Jeremy looked at her hands with their neat, unpainted nails; they were dainty, as was the rest of her. Yet there was a solidity to her as well, a kind of deceptive strength. Jeremy didn’t know how he knew this, but he believed in first impressions. Maybe it was her profession, the knowledge she had yet to impart that he seemed to so desperately need.

  Jeremy realized she was waiting for a response. “Yeah, it is all connected.” He wanted to tell her all about it, start to finish, get her take. Instead, he said, “It’s complicated, I guess.”

  “For another day, then,” Annabelle declared. She leaped up and gestured for Jeremy to do the same. So he did. “Okay, who wants to learn how to shower with that ridiculous brace?” she asked as if it was going to be the most fun lesson ever.

  Jeremy would’ve enthusiastically raised his right hand—if he could have.

  CHAPTER

  13

  Annabelle confirmed what Jeremy already knew from Hockstein’s instruction sheet: The abduction pillow had to come off before he got into the shower; she’d show him how to remove it next time. What he’d been trying not to think about, however, but the therapist forced him to decide (the big event was now two days away), was who would help him in and out of the brace for said body cleanse and generally stand guard while he was washing up. She didn’t equivocate: “Jeremy, no way in hell can you do it yourself. Period, full stop.”

  He had a few choices, all of whom made him uneasy. Had Cassie not chosen this particular time to take her leave, his wife would have been his aide throughout this ordeal. He could bite the bullet and ask her to stop by every few days. The way things were going, Jeremy could probably go four days at a crack without showering. It’s not like he’d be playing pickup basketball or digging ditches in that damn sling. Besides, he’d gotten used to being a little gamy. It wasn’t that terrible, was it?

  Jeremy was, at least in theory, a lot less uncomfortable with the thought of being bare-assed around Cassie than, say, around his mother or son. Even though, yes, they’d both seen him naked: Joyce when he was a child, Matty when he was a child. Now, though, it was a nonstarter. And who’s to say Joyce or Matty would be cool with that scenario either? They were an open-minded group but not exactly commune dwellers.

  And what if he needed help and someone had to get into the shower with him? Cassie was the one who’d done that most recently (if, what was it, seven or eight years, was recently). But what made him think Cassie would now agree to assist him in any way? He could picture her terse response: “I’ll hire you a nurse.” Click. Would she be wrong?

  Annabelle was coming back in two days for more OT (that’s what the pros called it, apparently) at which time she was expecting the name—and who knows: birthday, shoe size, social security number?—of Jeremy’s shower buddy. He could tell, when it came to his well-being, she meant business. He wouldn’t disappoint her.

  Jeremy considered all this as he and Big Bertha sat in a chaise lounge in his backyard, the first time he’d been back to the scene of the crime—that is, his fiftieth birthday party—since the crime itself. Maybe he should just hire a nurse or caregiver a few hours a week to help with his more … intimate needs. It was more in line with Jeremy’s comfort zone anyway, not having to ask too much of others or put anyone out.r />
  He tried to lean back as best he could in the padded chair, tilting his face up to the late afternoon sun. It felt good to marinate in the warmth a bit, truly relax, not a feeling he’d experienced these past days. Jeremy nursed a cup of coffee—he’d finally mastered one-handed coffee making that morning, no small triumph—and thought about the last time he’d found himself alone, physically compromised, and unexpectedly needing help.

  Jeremy and Cassie had been dating for about a month, together most every night, doing the getting-to-know-you dance with increasing ease and familiarity. There was a level of depth and propulsion to their pairing unlike anything he’d experienced with other women and, though she didn’t exactly come out and say it, he sensed it was unlike what Cassie had been used to as well.

  He was essentially right, though what he didn’t know back then—how could he?—was that a small, imperceptible, but key disparity in their attachment to each other, even throughout the best of their years, would inform their future. It was a simple imbalance, really, and not that uncommon among even the happiest of couples. Except that, in the case of Cassie and Jeremy, it was the hairline crack that would slowly, but steadily, grow and spread and eventually fracture the foundation of what they had built together.

  The difference was this: Jeremy loved Cassie more unequivocally, more completely than she loved him. It was that way from the start, from the moment when he saw her in her ponytail and yoga pants walking toward the New Beverly Cinema. He was instantly smitten; she was coy and challenging, and, of course, enticing.

  That Jeremy was the more reserved of the two may have created a misperception, if not quite a deception, in the who-loved-whom-more contest. Although Cassie, for so many years, more outwardly displayed her awareness and affection—not just for Jeremy, but for everyone she cared about—it didn’t necessarily have the focus and gravity of Jeremy’s quieter attentions. Until maybe it got a bit too quiet.

  In any case, at the ripe old age of twenty-three, Jeremy had begun to have some mild, but unprecedented, back pain, more likely due to the weights he’d started lifting to impress the athletic Cassie (he’d joined a gym for the first and last time) than the sexual gymnastics the new couple had been avidly engaging in. He didn’t think much of the increasing stiffness in his lower back—wasn’t paying attention to much of anything at the time except his infatuation with Cassie—and continued to carelessly overdo his crash course in body sculpting.

  One night, toward the end of their amazing first month, Jeremy and Cassie were exploring each other’s nether regions on the kitchen floor of the dowdy—but affordable—Valley Village apartment Jeremy had been renting since he graduated from Berkeley. Just as Jeremy landed beneath Cassie who was about to lower herself onto her outstretched boyfriend, he felt a seizing in the small of his back that made him cry out in agony, well before he might have otherwise cried out in pleasure. Suddenly, he couldn’t move, frozen on the cold linoleum floor, arrows shooting up his spine.

  “Baby, are you okay?” Cassie had asked, pulling away, her eyes going wide.

  “Uh, I think you should call an ambulance,” Jeremy had quietly suggested. He didn’t know if he was overreacting but was willing to take the chance as those arrows tied themselves into a furious knot just above what he would later learn was his sacroiliac.

  Cassie, who was naked but for Jeremy’s unbuttoned flannel shirt (it had devilishly ended up on her instead of him), leaped into action. She called 911 and, in five minutes, a pair of paramedics arrived. They asked a bunch of questions, took Jeremy’s vitals, and then transferred his immobile body onto a stretcher.

  An ER visit and one well-placed shot of cortisone later, Jeremy was back home, semi-mobile, and assigned to three days of bed rest until his inflamed back fully settled down. Cassie packed a bag and moved in with Jeremy to take care of him. She even took a few sick days off from work so he wouldn’t be stranded, ignoring his protests that his parents could stop by to spell her during the day.

  As much as he hated to inconvenience her, Jeremy was secretly thrilled that Cassie would be with him 24/7, for once really relishing someone’s undivided attention. That he wanted her around all the time, in a kind of impromptu trial run for cohabitation, only further confirmed what Jeremy already knew: he was madly in love with her and was the luckiest guy in the world to ever have his back go out on him.

  Nothing was too much trouble for Cassie during those idyllic three days. She cooked, tidied up, organized his kitchen cabinets, did a little redecorating, watched bad movies on cable with him (she only fell asleep during one, Ishtar, and who could blame her, though Jeremy was a bit fascinated by the film’s awfulness), gave him erotic sponge baths (making sure he never had to overexert himself at, er, peak moments), told him stories about her childhood, and was the all-around best caregiver, companion, lover, and friend he could have imagined. And he hoped one day he could do the same for her—in sickness and in health.

  It was also the first time they said “I love you.”

  The memory of those few days so long ago was more than just bittersweet. It was like a knife to Jeremy’s heart. It was also the first time since Cassie’s untimely departure that he really and truly felt the seriousness, the permanence of his situation. He knew it for sure now in his bones and in his soul: Cassie was not coming back.

  “Dad, you’re such a freak!” said Matty. “How could you think for even a second I wouldn’t want to help you deal with the shower?”

  “I could still hire someone,” Jeremy answered with minimal conviction. He was relieved that Matty was so unequivocal in his response. “I think my insurance will cover at least part of it.”

  “They can pay me, how’s that?” Matty shot Jeremy one of his trademark looks. It made Jeremy smile. That kid.

  It was Saturday, the day before Annabelle was returning for round two of “let’s help Jeremy feel more like a human being.” Jeremy and Matty were at the kitchen table eating lunch. Matty had picked up, as he called it, “responsibly sourced” food from Tender Greens: Mediterranean Steak Salad for Jeremy, the Grilled Salmon Bowl (with extra salmon—muscle-building protein, you know) for himself. Jeremy didn’t know how “responsible” his meal was, but it was pretty tasty.

  “And let’s just get the weirdness in the room out of the room, okay, Dad?” Matty met his father’s eyes squarely as he chewed a hunk of salmon. “I won’t be traumatized if I see your dick.”

  Jeremy could feel his face flush. “Honey, it has absolutely nothing to do with that,” he white-lied unconvincingly. “You’re a busy guy, I just don’t want to put you out.” Jeremy returned to his salad. He’d really made headway on his left-handed fork management—as long as he didn’t have to cut anything.

  “I mean, it’s no secret I’ve seen a lot of dicks,” Matty pressed on.

  What could a father say to that but: “I’m proud of you, son.” Matty laughed out loud. It was a jokey response by Jeremy, of course, but he was proud of Matty - not for the number of penises he’d encountered in his young life (honestly, Jeremy didn’t need to know the specifics), but for his son’s unselfconsciousness, his spontaneity, his offhand charisma. Jeremy didn’t know how much of that Matty got from Cassie, but he sure didn’t take after his father in that regard. Jeremy made a note to self: “Be more like my son.”

  “Besides, it’s not like you’ve got anything to be shy about in that department, Pop.” Matty popped up from his seat, stuck his head in the refrigerator, and returned with a bottle of soy sauce.

  “What are you getting at?” Jeremy asked as he watched his son douse his fish in Kikkoman.

  Matty suppressed a grin. “Nothing, ya big stud,” he said, diving back into his salmon bowl.

  The last thing Jeremy wanted to talk about with his son was schlong size—his own or anyone else’s—though he had to admit, bringing up the so-called weirdness did relax him about it all. It also made Jeremy feel
a little ridiculous.

  “Matty, tell the truth. Do you think I’m too uptight about stuff? I mean, in general. Y’know, a stick-in-the-mud? That’s what your mother called me, anyway.”

  Matty looked up and assessed his father. “Why, because you don’t want to talk about your dick? Dad, most fathers don’t want to talk about their dick with their sons beyond how they should protect it once they’re old enough to figure out where they want to put it.”

  Jeremy mulled that. “Did we ever have that conversation?”

  “Ha! Are you kidding? Old stick-in-the-mud like you?” Matty speared his last bite of salmon. His eyes twinkled at his dad, who looked a bit hurt. “Kidding! I’m kidding! Yes, you gave me a very responsible lecture about sex—well, safe sex—when I was, like, thirteen, and you and Mom realized I liked boys and you wanted to get ahead of the curve.”

  Jeremy now recalled that chat. Cassie had asked him to do it, thought it would be a nice bonding experience for father and son. Little did she know the real bonding over it wouldn’t happen for another decade. “For the record, I would have had the exact same talk with you had you liked girls. Well, maybe not the exact same talk, but you know what I’m saying.”

  “I do,” Matty confirmed. “And, believe me, it meant a whole lot to me back then.” He took the last bite of his lunch. “I was lucky—am lucky—to have parents like you and Mom. Not sure I say that enough.” Matty pushed aside his bowl, checked his phone.

  Jeremy watched him, moved and appreciative. He thought back on that sex talk with Matty, the details taking shape. After Jeremy had laid out the basics for his son, in the clearest but least awkward way he could, he felt obligated to reassure Matty that his sexuality was a nonissue to both Cassie and him.

  “But you’d be happier if I wasn’t gay, wouldn’t you?” Matty had asked, his eyes filling up.