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To that, he shot me that boyish smile again. “Feeding me? Fuck, I hope not,” he said, reaching for the fork, and sliding it between his little finger braces. It wasn’t a smooth move, but he managed without spilling much.
I left him alone, not wanting to make him feel insecure as he tried to feed himself, and went into the kitchen to eat by myself, sticking some pieces into the puzzle I was working on.
It was actually one I had made myself from a picture I’d taken of the beach not far from here with Samson dancing in the waves as they crashed on the shoreline.
It was an “old lady hobby.” One of many I’d picked up since moving to Navesink Bank. I also suddenly enjoyed growing a windowsill herb garden, making scarves—using a loom because for the life of me I couldn’t figure out how to do it just with hooks or needles—and I’d recently started a pretty strong birdwatching addiction, thanks to the several bird feeders I set out in the backyard.
Did some part of me crave adventure?
Sure.
But I had to work with what was cheap and safe right now.
Someday, I promised myself, I would go explore, have vacations, do things worth telling grandchildren about.
That was simply not today.
So I stabbed pieces into my puzzle and ate my once-weekly takeaway splurge. While pretending not to listen to the low voices of the men in the other room.
At one point, I heard the clicking of the wheels as Kingston wheeled Atlas down the hall. Likely to the bathroom. Then back. A task I would have to help with too, whether Atlas knew that or not.
I did let myself think about how different things were going to be for a while. In small ways. Like how I was going to need to throw on a robe before coming out of my room in the morning since I slept without pants and in tees that didn’t exactly hide ‘the girls.’ Or how I likely would not be doing any deep cleaning while singing my heart out to one of my playlists.
But also, I would need to be running errands and helping in the daily care of another person. A man, nonetheless. One I didn’t even know.
Sure, Kingston said he or his brothers would help with something as intimate as showering. But I was pretty sure Atlas was grossly underestimating just how much help he was going to need in his daily life.
Sure, once his fingers healed, he might be able to do more for himself. But until then, even transferring himself to the office chair—or a wheelchair if he got one—was going to require help.
I wasn’t sure if it was just pure male bravado that had him thinking he was going to be able to mostly take care of himself, or if he just had been in survival mode, and hadn’t gotten a chance to see how helpless he really was, but I had a feeling in a day or two, the truth was really going to smack him upside the head.
From experience, I also believed a period of a really sour mood would follow that realization.
“Hey, AJ,” Kingston’s voice said, soft and reassuring as ever, enough that he didn’t even startle me when he’d been sneaking up on me.
“Hey,” I said, turning to give him a small smile.
“I’m really sorry about this,” he said, and what’s more, he meant it.
“It’s alright. You couldn’t have predicted this.”
“No, but I should have predicted him coming home at some point, and you being here. Needing to protect yourself with a damn frying pan,” he said, lifting his arm to show me it, then placing it on the stove. “In my defense, I had sick kids and a sick wife when I’d been talked into this arrangement. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Really, it’s okay, Kingston.”
“It’s not,” he corrected. “But I appreciate you rolling with this. Between the two of us, my brother has no fucking idea how hard this is gonna be for him for a solid month. Before those fingers start feeling better. And his rotator cuff. Atlas has always been pretty go-with-the-flow, but he can’t let these injuries slide right off his back like he does most things.”
“I was actually just thinking how much harder this is going to be than he realizes.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “But I want you to know I am only asking you to do errands. To bring him drinks. That kind of shit. Anything else he needs, I want you to call me. Actually, I’m gonna leave you a list of numbers,” he said, walking over to my magnetic grocery list on the fridge, taking it down, and starting to scribble.
“How many numbers?” I asked as I stood and watched him write for what felt like forever.
“I’m listing them in order of priority. So me and my other brothers—Nixon and Rush. We can do more of the heavy-lifting if necessary. If you can’t get us, I’m leaving Mark’s number. That’s our sister Scotti’s husband.
“If you can’t get him either, there is Shane, Ryan, Eli, and Hunter. They’re all Mark’s brothers. And then under them are the names and numbers of all our wives. And Helen and Charlie Mallick.
“Atlas, whether he remembers or not, has a really big circle. And we’re all happy to help. There is no reason for anyone, especially you, to need to stress yourself out over his care. We can all pitch in.”
