by Jamie Beck
When I introduce myself to Carlos, I notice the balloons and drawings on his side of the room. Levi’s side is stark and cold, like him and his house.
An orderly brings lunch trays, but the food looks wretched. I perceive Levi’s disgust. Aside from sampling the Jell-O, he pushes the cart away.
“So, Levi, tell me what happened,” I say, switching topics in front of his roommate. “What are your injuries?”
He sighs, acquiescing to my determination. He crosses one arm over his chest while toying with the remote with his other hand. His defensive posture is rapidly becoming familiar.
“An idiot driving a car without headlights plowed into me on the PCH and fractured my spine. They stabilized it with some screws and a graft. Everything should start feeling better in four to six weeks and heal in six months to a year.” He recites the summary without despair, but his glib tone rings hollow in my ears.
Despite his dismissive manner, I assume he’s suppressing a storm of emotion. His stony facade may take years to chip away, if he’ll even let anyone try.
“So, within a year you’ll be practically back to normal? That’s great. How long will you be here?”
“Two more days, but you don’t need to come back,” he preempts.
Shrouded by mistrust, he’s difficult to read. My instinct tells me he’s pushing back to protect himself, not to offend me. In any case, his behavior presents a challenge I must meet.
“No, I don’t need to, but I bet you’d like some items from your house. A change of clothes, or your laptop?”
I watch him weigh the defeat of asking for a favor against living without his computer for the next few days. Sadistically, I enjoy his squirming, but only because I perceive it’s not something he suffers often.
“I’d like some of those things, but you don’t have to do it.” He affects a bored countenance, presumably to maintain his own sense of control. “I’m not asking you for favors, Lindsey.”
“Fine, Levi. I’m offering without being asked.” I’m slightly agitated now, at him and myself. “Would you like some things from home, or not?”
Tapping the book against his legs twice before answering, he replies without looking me in the eyes. “Yes, thank you. That’s real nice of you.”
He coughs to cover his discomfort. Considering his current predicament, I don’t rub his nose in my small victory.
“Okay. Write down a list of what you want and where I can locate it. I’ll bring it back later today. Do you have a key hidden somewhere?”
“They’re on the tray over there.” He motions toward the table tray and jots down a short list of items.
“Great. I’ll do this while you read.” I wink in jest.
He flashes a friendly smile, revealing his dimples once more. “I’ll need my glasses,” he says, pointing to the list, “to read this book.”
“Glasses, huh? You didn’t need those in Florida,” I remark.
“Seven years age a person, but thanks for reminding me.”
Before leaving, I again notice the mush served up as lunch. Levi and Carlos deserve better.
“I know you’re a picky eater. Can I bring you something for dinner?”
“I’ve cooked with you, so I’m not so sure that’s a wise idea. You might bleed to death from mishandling the knives.”
I cock my head in reply. “You misunderstood. May I order something from a restaurant you enjoy and bring it to you? Maybe something nearby, so it holds well?”
“I’m not supposed to eat solids today,” he says. “Soup?”
Suddenly he’s not uncomfortable asking for favors? Hmm. Food is Levi’s Achilles’ heel.
Carlos interrupts us to recommend a nearby restaurant that might have a decent selection of soups. He’s a kindhearted person who doesn’t deserve the misfortune of being saddled with Levi as his only companion. I’m sure he’ll be eager to return home after another twenty-four hours with Mr. Personality. Once I convince him to allow me to bring him dinner, too, I take my leave.
As I near the door, I don’t glance back, but say aloud, “You’re so welcome, Levi,” and then I depart. Curious to hear his retort, I wait outside the door for a second to listen. Levi’s silent, but Carlos speaks.
“She’s very nice. You were wrong saying no girls would check on you.”
“She’s not a girl, she’s a neighbor. A bossy one,” he mutters, but his voice sounds appreciative for a change.
“She’s pretty on the outside and the inside,” Carlos remarks. I hear Levi grunt an acknowledgment and turn on the TV.
He’s surly on the outside, but I’ve glimpsed bits of gentleness underneath his bluster. Maybe I’m as naive as Jill thinks, but my gut tells me I’m right about some painful part of Levi’s past making him withdraw in self-defense.
I’m determined to break through his shell, unless it’s too late for anyone to crack it open. I can’t control him or his behavior, but I can do what I know is right. Being helpful is always right.
CHAPTER EIGHT
June 7, 2013
Levi
The cops can’t locate the hit-and-run driver since no one can adequately describe the vehicle model and color, or offer plate information. I doubt I’ll ever see justice. It’s probably some uninsured jerk anyway. At least he or she mustn’t be injured or isn’t filing baseless claims against me, so perhaps I should count myself lucky the idiot disappeared into the night.
My bike’s totaled, however. I’ve already gotten the go-ahead from my insurance company to order a replacement. Damn, I loved that bike. I hope the new one rides as well.
On top of these letdowns, the past two days have been near hell. I despise the hospital—the odors, commotion, roommate, and food—and can’t wait to sign my discharge papers. At least this morning I finally shed the damn tight, itchy circulation stockings. The white spandex contraptions were hot as hell. And at this point, I feel so trapped and uncomfortable here I might just welcome a blood clot.
For whatever reason I’m sure I don’t know, Lindsey’s stopped in each day with decent food, creature comforts from my house, and her company. She’s strictly adhering to the high-protein diet the doctor recommends to help the graft heal. Believe it or not, her genuine motive appears to be her silly idea about our fates being intertwined. That or she gets her kicks from helping people. Although she deliberately antagonized me with a large, yellow smiley-face balloon—yes, a smiley face—which she tied to the bed railing, claiming something on my side of the room should smile.
She’s harder to read than most, but it’s possible I’m just unaccustomed to reading honest, open people. Most folks I’ve met are looking out for themselves, not bending over backward to help a stranger.
Her vivacious optimism’s infectious to everyone in her orbit, and even I have succumbed somewhat to its power. She’s been cheerful to the staff and calls them all by name. Carlos loved her instantly and I bet Lindsey hated to see him go home yesterday.
I’ve never met a whirling dervish like her before, and I equally dread and relish her visits. If I’m not careful, I’ll get sucked into the quicksand of my growing preoccupation with her. Lindsey’s determination knows no limits.
When she learned about my dilemma with home care and rehabilitation, she insisted on aiding in my recovery at home. While I’m grateful to avoid the rehab center, I drew the line when she suggested I stay at her house. I need to be in my own space. She also suggested I rent a hospital bed so I can avoid the steps. She’s too quick to run wild with any small concession. I want to sleep in my own goddamned bed.
I’m hopeful, after a couple of days of checking on me, she’ll see I’m okay and leave me to my own devices.
“Hey there! Big day!” Lindsey floats into the room carrying a lunch bag and a duffel. She’s glowing today, all too appealing in her peach-colored sundress and sandals. Placing the duffel beside me on the bed, she hands me a flavored seltzer and a broccoli and cheddar quiche. Better yet, she brought me pecan pie, which I l
ove. I expect she assumes all Southerners love pecan pie, and she’s probably not far off the mark.
“Thanks for lunch.” I flip the tab on the seltzer and take a large bite of the quiche.
Her takeout meals have been a real saving grace. If I’d been stuck eating hospital food, I’d have lost ten pounds.
“Sure.” Lindsey grins and sucks in her breath, preparing to share something unpleasant, I’m sure. “So, don’t get all weird on me, but I went into your bedroom and brought you a fresh change of clothes. It seemed like sweats would create the least friction against your incision.”
She begins unpacking my underwear and clothes from the duffel bag. Good God, she went through my underwear? I bet she messed up my drawers, too.
“Do you need help getting dressed, or can you do it yourself?” She smiles, completely unfazed by my discomfort. I think she uses that smile as a shield, or maybe as a weapon. “Remember, you shouldn’t bend.”
“Hell, Lindsey, I can put on my own pants.” I groan, partly mortified, and partly affronted by the invasion of privacy.
“Only trying to help.” She holds her hands up as if she’s being arrested and rolls her eyes. “Fine, try it yourself. I’ll step outside the room.”
Once she’s in the hallway, I sit up. With enormous effort, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. While wrestling with the underwear first, trying to swing it down and catch it with my toes, pain shoots through my back and legs. I bite through my discomfort because there’s no way she’s helping me when I’m naked. Somehow I manage to get it on without really bending.
After a meager victory with the Calvin Kleins, I admit defeat and call her back in to help with the rest. To her credit, she returns without saying “I told you so,” but her grin tells me she’s enjoying her power trip.
Agitated by my ineptitude, I hold the socks up. “Couldn’t bring flip-flops?”
“You might drag your feet and trip over flip-flops, Levi. I can’t lift you by myself if you end up on your ass.” She cocks her head, ready for any challenge, so I say nothing.
Removing the socks from my hand, she kneels down to put them on me the way one might help a small child. Next, she helps me strap the back brace on. Finally, she grabs the sweats, bunches each leg up at the heel, and pulls them up over my knees like those girly tights.
Although she’s being careful not to be too touchy, her fingers brush against my feet and legs while she works. I admit, the intimacy’s arousing and unsettling. I’ve got to define the boundaries. Lord knows what latitude she’ll take if I ever lower my guard.
Within the hour, we’re driving home in her ragtop with the wind whipping through our hair. Thankfully, she brought a couple of pillows to help support my body. Fresh air and a view of the ocean—heaven. After being cooped up for so many days, I don’t even complain about the jarring pain in my back when we hit bumps in the road.
I’ve missed home. When we arrive, Lindsey comes around to the passenger side to heave me up and out of the reclined car seat.
“Can you manage the steps by yourself, or should I take these things inside first and come back for you?”
“I can manage, Lindsey. I’m not paralyzed.”
“Okay, Oscar the Grouch. Why are you so unwilling to accept my help?” She shakes her head and moves away, clearly intending her question to be rhetorical. “You should be more gracious.”
Without complaining further, she follows behind me for the agonizing minutes it takes to climb the half flight of steps to reach the main living area.
“Remember, the doctor said only take the stairs once a day for a couple of weeks. So, rest here on the sofa this afternoon. Once you’re upstairs, you’ll be stuck there.”
Man, she’s as high-handed as ever. But after the brief experience of the half flight, I know I won’t be going up and down the steps too often anyway. I glance at the split cushions of the sofa and wonder whether I can comfortably lie on them all day. I’d never admit it, but maybe Lindsey’s hospital bed idea wasn’t bad. I dread lowering my body onto the sofa. As if reading my mind, she holds out her arm to ease me down.
Once I’m settled, she repositions the coffee table so I can access my laptop and the remote. She exits the room and returns with several bed pillows and a blanket. As she props me up and tucks another pillow under my knees, I’m touched by her bigheartedness, and reach for her hand.
“Thanks. Sorry for being grumpy.” I mean it, but I can’t look her squarely in the eye. “I appreciate all your help.”
The outer corners of her large eyes crinkle with her smile. She slaps her hands to her cheeks and opens her mouth into an O. “Oh my. Being nice didn’t kill you!” She snickers at her little joke, then says, “You’re welcome.”
When she returns from taking my bag upstairs, she’s carrying the accumulated mail, which includes a cardboard shipping box.
“Should I open this package?” She holds it up. “It’s heavy.”
“Who’s it from?” I don’t recall ordering anything online.
Lindsey reads the return address and printed packaging tape. Her face bristles before settling into a miserable expression while her hands gently rub the sides of the carton.
“It’s from a mortuary in Nevada.” Her eyes soften. “I’m so sorry, Levi. These must be your father’s ashes.”
“Go on, open it.” I stare at the box, wide-eyed. My body is stock-still as I hold my breath.
She lifts a smaller plastic box from inside the container and pushes it toward me.
My pop’s in that tiny box. I can hardly breathe. When Lindsey nudges it a little closer, I shake my head, unwilling to touch it.
She pulls it onto her lap. Her eyes glisten and she clears her throat. “Where would you prefer I place it until you get an urn? On a bookshelf?”
“Closet’s fine.”
“Are you sure?” She frowns and tilts her head as if she’s misunderstood.
“Yes.”
She straightens herself and then wanders to the front hall closet with the container.
“Wow, you’re really organized. I thought your clothes closets and drawers were compulsively tidy, but here, too?” I hear her making space for the box.
My jaw clenches at the thought of Pop’s ashes being here in my house. I’ve barely wrapped my head around the fact that he’s gone, and now what’s left of his flesh and bones is sitting on my shelf. I swallow the lump in my throat before Lindsey returns.
I sort through the mail and note an oversize envelope from Harper & Associates. When she returns, she spots the junk mail pile and takes it to the kitchen to toss out. Her phone rings while she’s in there.
“Hi, Mom.” Silence.
“Sorry, I’ve been busy this morning.” Lindsey’s voice loses its bounce. More silence.
“No. I haven’t decided what to do about Rob yet.” She sighs, submitting to her mother’s apparent interrogation.
“Nope, haven’t searched for a job yet, either.” Pause.
“Yes, Mom, I know.” Another pause.
I stretch my neck to catch a glimpse of her, but it hurts my back, so I withdraw a smidge. She’s holding the phone to her ear and her other hand’s plastered across her forehead.
“Aren’t I even allowed a full week to do nothing?”
Her resentful tone increases my curiosity about the other end of the conversation.
“I told you. My neighbor was in a terrible car accident and I’ve been helping out. I’ve been preoccupied.”
Now she’s leaning one hand against the counter while holding the phone away from her ear. I can’t help but smile because she looks cute all pissed off.
“Oh, I didn’t realize compassion and empathy should only be extended to people we know well.” Her acerbic tone could peel the paint from the walls. “My bad.”
Hmm, the girl can bark when she’s mad. Guess her mother disapproves of Lindsey wasting time helping me. Fortunately, it hasn’t stopped her yet.
“No.” Silence.
“Yes, you’re right. I know. I know I have decisions to make.” Silence.
Lindsey’s bent over the counter now with her chin resting in her palm. I hear her exhale a deep, exasperated breath.
“I’m sorry. But seriously, why are you being so hard on me? We’ve never fought so much as we have these past few weeks. Please, I’m not alone now. Can we talk later? I’ll call tonight. Love you.”
When she returns, I pretend to be absorbed in my mail. Interestingly, she caters somewhat to her demanding mother. I smile wryly. The almighty Lindsey inherited her bossy streak honestly, and even she answers to someone, at least on occasion.
More interesting, however, is a certain someone named Rob. Is he a boyfriend? Why’d she leave? In any case, her mother obviously wants her to return. A covetous twinge of spite unfolds within me.
“Levi, if you’re settled, I’ll head home.” She’s distracted now, all traces of buoyancy erased. “What would you like for dinner?”
“I’ll fix something, don’t worry.”
Once again, her palm flies to her forehead. She breathes a long sigh, then snaps.
“Any food you had here has gone bad. Plus, you shouldn’t lift things or stand around bent over, chopping food. Please, just make it easy for me. If you write down a list, I can swing by the grocery store later to get you some prepared snacks.”
It’s the first hint of resentment I’ve witnessed, and I want to make it go away for both our sakes.
“I’ll eat whatever you want to eat. Thanks.”
She arches her brow, confused by my sudden cooperation. I’m awaiting a smart remark, but she simply nods.
“Thanks. I’ll come back later. If you need me before then, call my cell, okay?” She thrusts her pointer finger toward me. “Don’t push yourself. Stay on the couch and relax. Don’t try to be superman.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She exits through the back door, leaving it open so I can enjoy the breeze.
Once I’m alone, I tear open the envelope from Harper. As promised, he enclosed a copy of my pop’s will and an insurance form, together with another small envelope with my name scrawled across the front in my pop’s handwriting. My damn hand trembles while I tear open the letter.