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Cara
“Are you ready?”
Jackson nods at me, staring at Wesley in Rose’s arms from inside Easton’s truck.
He does that a lot. Stares at Wesley. Doesn’t try talking to him at all, he just silently watches him. It’s odd, because Wesley stares back. It’s like they have some weird silent discussion I’m not privy to.
I shut the door, walking around to the driver’s side and hopping in.
No, I don’t have my license. Not even my permit. Wonderful mother I’ve had, trying to help me become an adult over the years.
Now, it’s time to get my license by myself. Not because I feel like driving, but because I have Wesley now, and getting in trouble is the last thing on the list of things I need.
Jackson moved in with me a little over a week ago, and things have been… intense.
At first, he was a different Jackson than what I’m used to. Beaten down, broken. A weaker version of the Jackson I know. It made me sad and hesitant to do anything around him because it almost felt like I was around a stranger.
Something happened within the last few days, though. It’s like he snapped out of the depression. Gone are the sad, empty looks, and back again are his angry, silent, and calculated looks that I’ve grown so fond of.
I’ve had high hopes that since he’s moved in with me, we could rekindle what we had before The Incident (that’s what I call it now). I was almost regretful of making him come live with me. Then I was regretful that I was regretful. Asking someone who is completely paralyzed to share a house with you and your newborn is almost the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
But I was smart in some aspects by getting the house in order beforehand. And the nurse, Laurie, is a godsend. Jackson would gut me like a fish if I attempted to bathe him, wash him, change him, or help with any bathroom duties. Not that I want to particularly do any of those things anyway, but I just try to help.
He almost bites my hand off when I feed him. That’s enough of a challenge. I can’t imagine what poor Laurie has to go through behind the confines of my tiny bathroom walls.
I lay with him each night and watch his lifeless body not move even an inch, yet his chest rises and falls with each breath he takes. He’s alive, his body is not. Some nights I even curl against him, wishing for us to go back to the way things were. He doesn’t touch me back, because he can’t. He doesn’t even realize I curl against him, and I’m always back on my side by the time he wakes up in the morning.
I live in a world of uncertainty when all I want is stability.
I want Jackson and I to be a family with Wesley. I want us to build something as strong as Mount Everest that not even quadriplegia can break. Sadly, our relationship is more like an old house on the coast, bound to fall apart with the first hurricane to come by.
“What’re you thinking about?” He asks me when I’m silent about five minutes into the drive. While he was talking when he first arrived, these last few days have been met with silence. He’s back to his contemplating self, and I’ve been talking non-stop, glad for a little normality in our lives. I’m sure my silence is cause for concern in his eyes.
“Just wondering how today will go.”
He grunts, nodding his head.
Today we’re heading to Jackson’s first physical therapy session, followed by a doctor’s appointment to check on his progress.
He’s been silent all morning, his forehead creased heavily with his nerves he won’t speak. He’s scared, and I know he’s scared. Because I’m terrified. It’s like, if there’s no progress at this appointment, will there ever be any? Or will we forever be stuck on this loop of misery?
When we pull up to the physical therapist, which is attached to the doctor's office where Jackson will have his appointment, I get out, going around to the back and grabbing the wheelchair out. This will be the first time I’m going to assist in moving Jackson, and he hasn’t seemed too happy about it.
I take a deep breath, preparing for the wrath I know is going to be unleashed on me. Opening the door, I smile at him, “Ready?”
He blinks down at me.
“Laurie gave me this strap to wrap around you to help with the lifting—”
“I know about the fucking strap, Cara. She uses it every day.”
“Oookay, then.” Mentally zipping my lips, I shift Jackson so he’s facing me and wrap the belt around his back. When I feel like I’ve got enough strength in me to help him into the wheelchair, I hold my breath and brace myself as I start pulling on the strap—
“Cara, stop.” He barks at me.
I stop, looking around at him with wide eyes. “What? What’s wrong? Am I doing something wrong?”
“There’s no way this is going to end well. Go and get some of the physical therapy workers.”
