Page 65 of That's Not a Thing

“No popping wheelies in the house.” I laugh and then turn back toward Peggy. “Are you from Bernard Mildred?” I ask, referencing the facility where Wesley is moving.

“Synergy Home Care,” she answers with a thick Brooklyn accent, her tone friendly.

I’m not certain, but I believe Synergy is a local home health care agency.

“I called them for help getting ready to move,” Wesley adds.

I shoot him a look as if to say he should have asked me for the help, not hired out the task, but I figure I will wait until Peggy leaves to lay into him.

“He’s all packed up now,” she tells me, lifting her small leather purse off the doorknob of the coat closet, “except for what he’ll need for the next week and a half.”

“Week and a half?” I balk. “What do you mean? That’s not when you’re leaving.”

“Yeah, the apartment at Bernard Mildred is ready for me, and I’m feeling like an interloper. I just want to let you get on with your life. You and Aaron both.” He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal that he’s moved his timeline up by two weeks. I’m suddenly short of breath, thinking that I have only a few more days with him and then he’ll be gone. I imagine going to visit him, but I have no income at present, and then I will presumably be stuck at a brand-new job for a while, and who knows how quickly he will deteriorate? Lately, I feel as if he’s weaker every day.

I have a vision of sitting by his bedside as he dies, and suddenly tears cloud my line of sight for the second time today. I turn toward the ice cream container and start scooping with all my might, channeling my frustration and dismay into my movements instead of my words. Amazingly, the ice cream comes right out, and I realize I never got myself a bowl. I rest the scoop back in the container and turn toward the cabinet as Wesley and Peggy say their good-byes.

“Thanks again,” he tells her, and I notice again how different his voice sounds. I wonder what’s going on inside his body to cause that change, whether it’s a respiratory condition or some deterioration of his vocal chords. For all my Internet research, I’m hardly an expert on the workings of ALS.

“Nice meeting you,” she calls in my direction as she walks out the door.

“You too,” I squeak back, failing to keep my own voice even.

As the door closes, Wesley turns toward me. “Please don’t get all weepy,” he says, and there’s an edge to his tone.

“What? I’m not.” I say, wiping away the wetness beneath my eyes with my forearm and picking up the ice cream scooper in one fluid movement.

“Good,” he says, “because I need to make choices that work for me.”

“Of course you do,” I answer, not sure why it suddenly feels like we’re arguing. My mind flashes to that moment four and a half years ago, when his parents died, when he totally shut me out, and I wonder if that is what he is doing again, pushing me away because it’s easier than confronting his grief. Well, this time I am not going to engage.

“I guess I should start figuring out where I’m going to go, too.” I try to keep my tone casual, mellow, like I didn’t notice this uptick in his aggression. If Wesley is moving out, it’s time for me to find my own place as well, so I might as well get busy on that. I have a stab of regret that I gave up my old apartment uptown. “I’m going to call around to some brokers. I’ll catch you later.” I take my bowl of ice cream and head straight to my bedroom. I’m not going to let Wesley attack me to make himself feel better.

I pass an hour alone in the bedroom, alternating between calling brokers and staring at the ceiling. After I hang up with the sixth broker, I lie back on the bed, absorbing the warm sunlight streaming through the window and listening to the quiet of the apartment. I wonder what Wesley is doing, alone in another room, and I begin to regret my behavior. Even though I’m devastated to be losing him, he is the one being forced to confront his own death, and I would do well to remember that I’m supposed to be supporting him. If he needs to vent a little, I should let him. I can try to have thicker skin.

I roll off the bed, grabbing the list of brokers and apartment buildings I’ve created. I amble into the hallway and see that Wesley’s door is open. I figure I will try to apologize for skipping out on our conversation earlier, but when I poke my head in, I pause. Wesley has his wheelchair next to the bed and he’s trying to hoist himself out of the chair, onto the mattress. I know he’s been doing this on his own for weeks, but this time he looks like he is really struggling, like he might not be able to make it. This chair is much larger than the other one and moving out of it seems more difficult.

“Can I help?” I ask, stepping into the room.

Wesley turns, still half raised from his seat, clearly surprised to see me. “Nah, I’ve got it,” he says lightly.

“It doesn’t look like you’ve got it. Come, just let me—”

“I’ve got it!” he snaps through gritted teeth. With what looks like Herculean effort, he pushes himself out of the chair and allows himself to collapse onto the bed.

“Jeez. Fine.” I can’t push down my annoyance, even though I’m trying. “I guess you had it.”

I walk back to my room, but now I get it, why he’s moving sooner than he originally planned. It has very little to do with availability and much more to do with his continued deterioration. I feel contrite that I don’t know how to respond to him better. I hope the people in his new home will give him the kind of support he needs. I wonder who will give me the support that I need.

Chapter Twenty-Five

July 2017

I’m waiting on what may be the slowest line I’ve ever witnessed at a Starbucks. There are only two people ahead of me, but I’ve already been standing here for fifteen minutes. I glance at my watch again, stressed that I’m going to be late to see Gladys at her second chemo appointment. I called her earlier this morning, offering to bring coffee with me when I arrived. Now I can’t leave without a caramel frap for Mitch and a simple tea for Gladys. I watch the rawboned teenager working behind the counter, and I’m amazed that it’s even possible for someone to move so sluggishly. Coupled with the day’s indecisive and chatty clientele, this shopping experience is enough to make me contemplate quitting caffeine.

Finally,finally, the woman in front of me decides what she wants to order, and it’s about to be my turn. I step closer to the counter, and I notice that the petite barista has a purple ring looped through her nose. As I open my mouth to rattle off my order, the girl turns to her coworker and starts complaining about how some appliance behind her was malfunctioning earlier.

The two of them walk over to the machine, some sort of coffee-brewing apparatus, and start pushing various buttons. After brief but apparently ineffective fiddling, the male barista pulls out his phone, declaring that he can find an online version of the instruction manual. I wait a few more moments, checking my own phone, and look up to find the two baristas giggling over whatever they have discovered on the guy’s phone. After another minute of being completely ignored, I finally find the nerve to speak up. “Miss, I’m sorry, but I’m in a big hurry. Could I place my order?”