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And at her words, I remind myself that a week and a half with Becca is better than no Becca at all. “It’s perfect, Becs.”
17
—Joshua—
My mom goes back home, back to work, back to making phone calls and excuses for me, while the rest of us go back to the hospital. None of us seem to know what to do, how to act, so we sit in silence and watch Chazarae sleep. She sleeps a lot. Apparently this is the new normal. At some point, I fall asleep, too, sitting on the chair next to her bed with her hand in mine. That’s when Rob and Kim show up with Tommy, their quiet voices waking me. Becca introduces them to her dad while Tommy sits on my lap, a frown on his lips as he holds Chaz’s fingers. “Is she going to be okay like last time?” he asks me.
I stare at my son and I try to think of the right words—words that will shelter him from the pain and the heartbreak of life. But he’s older now than he was when I went through this with my dad, so I give him the truth, because he deserves nothing less. “She’s not going to be the same, bud.”
“But you said Ma’am wasn’t going to be deaded like Pa.”
“And she’s not, but her memory is fading and she might not always act the same as you remember her. When she wakes up, she might not know you.”
“But I’m Thomas Joshua,” he says, beaming up at me. “Ma’am loves me. She’ll remember.”
I look over at Becs, her eyes as sad as I feel, and after a moment, she sits down on the couch next to her dad. She types something on her phone and he reads it, his eyes moving from side to side. Then he sighs, wraps an arm around her and brings her into him, kisses her forehead, making it impossible for me to dislike him as much as I had been.
The room fills with silence again, only for a few minutes before a nurse comes in, her eyes lighting up when she sees everybody in the room. “Young Chazarae must be very popular,” she sings. It shouldn’t annoy me that she’s so happy, so immune to what’s happening, but it does. “I just spoke to Dr. Richards. I have some good news and some bad news. Which would you like first?”
“This isn’t a game,” I mumble.
“Josh,” Kim says, placing her hand on my shoulder. I’m getting real fucking tired of the way people say my name like I don’t have a right to speak.
The nurse sits on the end of Chaz’s bed, completely clueless to my reaction. “The good news is Chazarae can go home today.”
“That’s great,” I say, at the same time Becca stands and moves toward me. “So what’s the bad?”
“The bad news is that her body’s taken quite a beating. She’ll need some help moving around. She’ll be able to walk, but not for extended periods of time, and she might need a wheelchair long term. She’ll need rails in the bathroom, little visuals around the house that remind her of her routine, signs on walls, things like that. Stairs might be a problem, too, so I don’t know what her house is like—”
“I’ll take care of it. Give me a couple hours.” I stand quickly and turn for the door, but Becca stops me. She types on her phone before showing it to me. Do you need any help?
I shake my head and point to Rob who’s already saying goodbye to Kim. “I got it,” I tell Becca. “Can you stay here until she wakes up and bring her home when she’s ready. Just um…” I take a calming breath. “Just please make sure she knows I’m at home waiting for her, okay?”
* * *
Rob and I get measurements and create a list of supplies we need to build the ramp on the porch before he goes to the lumber yard and I start working on things in the house. Once my dad got too sick to walk, we had to convert the downstairs office at my parents’ house to a bedroom. Chaz doesn’t have any rooms on the first floor, so I make quick work of disassembling her bed upstairs to convert her living room into her bedroom until I can come up with a better plan or maybe make provisions for an extension.
I hear a car pull up in the driveway, and I look out the window to see Martin stepping out of Chaz’s car. No Becca. I continue to watch as he leans against the hood and pulls out his phone. He taps a few buttons then holds it to his ear. A second later he’s talking, lips moving, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. I give up trying and head back downstairs to start moving the furniture to make room for the bed. I try to push him out of my mind while I drag the couches in all directions, attempting to find the perfect position. But he’s there, every interaction, every word spoken, every glare made my direction, he’s there… until my mind gets lost in the hurricane of his anger and hate toward me and before I know it, I’m stepping out of the house and walking over to him.
