Page 92 of Tap Left
“The doctor said it’s important to work on your fine motor skills,” Lola states.
“I think you misunderstood. Making sandwiches is a job for the rocket scientists of the world.”
“It’s harder than you think,” Grazi adds. “You must use your balance. Your hands. It’s a coordinated effort. Just try it, Adrian.”
“I’ll go without.” My attempt to wheel away from this disaster is thwarted when Lola hits the breaks on my chair. “Daire.”
I refuse to look at her. I’m hungry and cranky and tired, and everything hurts, and their lack of sympathy is bordering on sociopathic if you ask me.
Lola kneels down so that she’s on my level, and it’s not fair because she knows it only accentuates her cleavage when she does that.
“Put those away,” I direct her. “That isn’t going to work this time.”
She smiles and shakes her head. “Look,” she says softly. “I know this is hard. You don’t want to embarrass yourself, I get that. But you’re among friends. We aren’t judging you. And it’s okay to be vulnerable sometimes.”
Like hell it is.
“Am I paying you by the hour?” I reply. “I thought that was your friend’s job.”
She sighs. We both stare at each other sullenly. Jimmy comes into the kitchen and saves the day.
“Why don’t you two go paint your nails or something. I’ll take care of this.”
Both of the sadists reluctantly leave, and Jimmy levels me with his eyes. “C’mon. They won’t be content until you try. I’ll help you up. But then you’re on your own.”
There’s no arguing with Jimmy. If I told him no he’d just drag me from the chair and leave me to my own defenses when he wheeled it away. As it stands, he gives me very little assistance anyway. I use my hands to brace myself on the armrests while I kick up the footplates and plant my shoes firmly on the ground. It takes a ridiculous amount of effort to pull my ass out of the chair, and my legs shake when there’s nothing left to support me.
Jimmy moves the chair out of the way and leaves me to my own devices as he takes a seat at the kitchen table and reads on his phone. Everything is already laid out for me on the counter, so half the battle is won.
I grab a couple slices of bread and toss them onto the plate. Easy enough. The mayonnaise is another story. Twisting the lid off proves to be a chore since I’ve already burned through my energy reserves just by standing. But I’ve got something to prove, apparently, so I keep after it.
The lid flies off and lands on the floor, where it will stay. I reach for a butter knife and slather some mayo onto the bread like a six-year-old would paint a picture. The doctor was right. My motor skills suck. He says I’ll regain my strength in time, but there’s a deep-rooted fear inside of me that I won’t. That I will remain this useless sap who can’t even make a proper sandwich.
I squeeze the mustard too hard, and it sprays over the counter. Again, not my problem. That’s what they get for asking me to do this.
The meat and cheese are piled on, and I feel like I just ran a marathon when I pick up the plate and walk back towards my chair. I make it two steps before pain shoots up through my calf and renders me immobile. I’ve lost the ability to brace for impact, and I hit the floor with a thud, the plate clattering beside me.
Jimmy is up out of his chair, but he isn’t the only one. Lola and Grazi are there too, and they are all staring at me with wide, horrified eyes. I’m covered in mustard. There’s a chunk of bread stuck to my elbow. And I’m splayed out on the floor and can’t even manage to sit up.
I’ve had enough.
And I let them know it.
42
Lola
“You’re doing great.”
Daire squeezes his eyes shut and forces his body to finish out the allotted repetitions of exercises the therapist has set for him today. “Cut the bullshit, Lola,” he grunts. “You aren’t a cheerleader.”
Grazi looks at me and frowns, and I wonder if I look as exhausted as she does. It’s been two months since I stepped in to help, though I’m feeling more and more useless every day. Daire’s attitude is only getting worse. He’s irritable and mean, and everyone’s walking on eggshells around him. Well, everyone except for Jimmy because he apparently holds some extraordinary power over Daire that I’m not capable of harnessing.
The session ends, and Grazi says she’ll make us dinner. But she’s made dinner every night this week and what she really needs is a break. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’ve got this. You and Jimmy should go home and relax tonight.”
She glances at Daire, and his response is to flippantly wave her away. It pisses me off, and it’s getting harder to hold my tongue around him when he’s acting like a toddler. Grazi may have seemed like a raging bitch at first, but she loves Daire like a mother would. And now that I understand that and we’ve gotten to know each other, I want to smack him whenever he’s a dick to her.
“Are you sure?” Grazi asks. “It’s no bother.”
