Smirking at her attempt to chase away the jealous emotions eating me up inside, I followed her down the stairwell toward the kitchen.
The television was on in the living room, so I poked my head in, recognizing the sound of the hockey game. Leafs vs. Canadiens. The match of rivals. My eyes became glued to the TV as my phone buzzed in my pocket. I almost ignored it, but decided some socializing could be good for me since I’d kept a low profile as of late.
Alex:Hey man! We’re hitting up the Wandering Pint tonight. See you there at 9?
Alex knew about my diagnosis, but I hadn’t been overly forthcoming about what it meant long-term or how my life would change.
Asher:I wish I could make it. Family dinner night, some relatives coming in. Raincheck?
Alex:You’ll be missed, brotha. Next time!
I exhaled a sigh I hadn’t realized I was holding. Drinking wasn’t a huge part of our lives, but it was certainly part of the social one. My buddies were ritualistic. We’d hang out every Friday or Saturday night—hell, sometimes both—having beers at the pub downtown. Now that I’d quit drinking on my doctor’s advice, how was I going to tell them without getting razzed?
I didn’t want to be the sick guy in the group that people felt uncomfortable around. I didn’t want them to look at me differently, but I guessed inevitably, they would. I’d be the guy who couldn’t go to games anymore, the guy who couldn’t go for drinks anymore, the guy they’d start to avoid because he couldn’t doanythinganymore.
I’d be lumped in with the guys who were too lame to go out and have fun with us. The guys we made fun of after high school because they took their lives too seriously in university.
Lost in my self-pity train of thought, my mother cleared her throat. “How long have you been standing there?” I asked, feeling as if I’d been caught with a cigarette in my mouth.
“Long enough to see you fall into a slump inside that big ol’ brain of yours.” She chuckled.
Pulling me onto the couch next to her, she faced me and exhaled. “Asher, I know you’re having a hard time with all of this. Believe me—I am, too. We’re still navigating how to cope with your diagnosis.” Her head dropped as she searched for the words she needed to say.
“I want you to go for the treatment. I know you don’t want to. But I think if you’re feeling down in the dumps and not enjoying life, like you say you want to, what’s the harm?”
One corner of my lip lifted. She was trying to make a point, one that contradicted what I had been fighting for. “Fine,” herbrows lifted as if she expected me to agree, “I’ll make sure I enjoy the rest of the time I have left here. No more sulking.”
Knowing I had played her a little, she struck my shoulder. “You know, you’re such a little shit.”
I laughed. “I know.”
“Are we going to have some of that damn ice cream, or are you going to make me eat it alone?”
Lennon
Sitting in the living room, I was colouring a picture for when he returned. It had been longer than I had anticipated, so I wanted to make sure he knew I missed him by showing him some of my artwork. My mom was still in bed, where she usually was. Days had been hard for her since my little brother went to heaven. He had skipped right over spending time with us on Earth because he had been so excited to meet God—or at least that’s what my daddy had told me.
I thought he should have made a pit stop here first, even just to say hi. Maybe then my mom wouldn’t have been so sad.
Looking out the front yard window, I noticed that the sun had set. Maybe it had set a long time ago. I realized I was kind of hungry, and I hadn’t had supper. Maybe I should have gone to ask Mom?
The phone began to ring. It rang, and rang, and rang. It kept ringing until it finally stopped. When it stopped, I listened to see if Mom was coming to answer it or check who had called. She didn’t move.
I stood up and walked toward the window to see outside more closely. It was really dark out. I wondered what time it was, so I walked into the connecting kitchen where oak cabinets lined the walls with nice handles. I loved the gold handles. The stove clock flashed the time digitally: 12:10.
Just as I was trying to understand why it was dark at noon, the phone rang again.
Where was my daddy?
The ringing carried on. It rang, and rang, and rang. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing the sound would stop.
It rang again—but when I opened my eyes, light was blaring through the curtains and I was in my current apartment. I wasn’t six anymore. I was twenty-five. My cell phone was ringing on the nightstand.
Shoving the blankets off of me, I scurried to answer it. No one ever called me, so this might have been important. Important for me.
Snatching the phone upright and ripping it off the charging cord, I pressed the green answer button and frantically brought the phone to my face. “Hello?”
A voice on the other end sounded cheerful, professional. “Hello, Lennon, it’s Rachel. How’s the day going?”
