Chapter 16 Benji #2
Mickey is quiet. He doesn’t know what to do with me crying over the fact that he didn’t eat lunch. But somebody needs to take care of him. Not the nurses. Somebody who shows up because they want to, not because it’s their job.
Mickey needs to be taken care of. Damn it, this upsets me.
I start pulling containers out, opening lids, smelling everything frantically.
I’ve shifted into caregiver mode and can’t turn it off.
The brisket, ribs and the cornbread are all fine.
Smoked meat can sit at room temperature for a bit without killing anyone, that’s the whole point of smoking it.
But the coleslaw, I pop the lid and the smell hits me and I snap it shut.
“The coleslaw is done,” I say. “Mayonnaise-based. Sitting in a dead cooler all day. That’s a food poisoning container, Mickey. If you’d eaten that...”
“I didn’t eat it.”
“Because you couldn’t reach it! Which is the only reason you didn’t get sick on top of everything else. I swear to God...”
“Benji. It’s okay. The brisket is fine. The ribs are fine. Smoked meat sits out at barbecue competitions for hours. You’ve been to Tex’s bar.”
He’s talking me down the way a cop talks someone off a ledge, calm and steady, and I can feel myself teetering between the meltdown I already had and the second one that’s right behind it.
He’s right, the meat is fine, I know the meat is fine, but the coleslaw is ruined and Sheila packed it with love for him.
The waste of it feels like a small stupid tragedy on top of the big one.
“We’re never telling Sheila about the coleslaw,” I say.
“Agreed.”
“If that woman finds out her coleslaw went bad because nobody helped you eat it, she will drive to this hospital and she will burn it to the ground.”
“Also agreed.”
“This is a pact, Mickey. A binding pact. The coleslaw died with dignity and we will honor its memory in silence.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. I’m still standing there with tears drying on my face and a container of spoiled coleslaw in my hand and he grins at me. I toss the coleslaw in the trash, open the brisket, find a fork, and hand it to him.
“I’m sorry, I should’ve made sure all this was refrigerated before I left last night. I thought the ice packs would keep everything cold until lunch. I screwed up. This is my fault.”
“Benji, stop apologizing. I’m able to speak you know. I could’ve asked them to do that too. You’re the one thing keeping me going. Don’t blame yourself for every little thing. It’s not a big deal. Calm down and eat with me.”
“No, I can’t. I’m too wound up. The good news is that Dante lands tomorrow morning. He’s renting a car and driving to my rental. He’ll take over the vendors and the logistics, then I can focus on the ceremony layout.”
“That is very good news. You need the help.”
“I really do. I’m fighting with florists and chasing driftwood and my ribs still hurt when I breathe too deep. I look terrible and I can’t stop coming here. I know it doesn’t make sense. But I can’t stop because this room is the only place in my entire day where I feel like myself.”
The words come out before I can catch them, fast and unfiltered and probably too honest. He’s watching me blurt out the truth and I can’t take it back.
“This room is where you feel like yourself?” he asks. “Here with me?”
“Yeah. I know that doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m glad you feel that way.” He doesn’t say more than that.
“I want to bring Dante to meet you,” I say. “If that’s okay with you. I want him to see why I’ve been coming here every day to see you.”
“Bring him,” he says. “I’d like to meet the guy who’s been keeping you alive for the past seven years.”
When he finishes eating, I grab the cream. He watches me pump cream into my palm without comment. I let my hands stay on his skin longer than the cream requires because cream stopped being the reason about three visits ago.
Then I lift the blanket to do his feet. This cream was designed for cheekbones and delicate skin under celebrity eyes. I’m using it on the cracked heels of a cop in a hospital bed, and his feet are worth every penny of it.
I’d sit at these feet any day.
Hell, I’d kneel at these feet.
I’d buy overpriced cream for the rest of my life if it meant taking care of the man attached to them. I move up his calf and realize somewhere along the way this stopped being guilt.
He’s watching me. The tears don’t come tonight. His face is open instead, his eyes locked on mine while my hands move over his skin. We stay like that until I finish and pull the blanket back into place.
Neither of us says a word.
Then the nurse knocks as always. “Sorry, visiting hours are over,” she says from the doorway.
“I’m leaving. I’m going.” I grab my bag and head for the door.
“Are you too tired to talk in the car on your way home?” Mickey asks.
“Never. Are you sure you’re not getting sick of listening to me?”
“Never,” he replies, smiling.
In the car my phone buzzes before I’ve even started the engine.
Mickey: I forgot to thank you for the bathroom photo. I needed that this morning more than you know.
Benji: The pink bathroom? You saw the mirror??? And you’re telling me now??
Mickey: I did. I saved it to my favorites. Call me.
I stare at the screen and hit the call button. We both know it’s not a photo of pink tile that he needed.
“Don’t say one word about the bathroom photo,” I say. “Not a word. I’m mortified. That was an accident.”
He laughs. “Okay. Can I get another one sometime though to add to my collection?”
We talk for two hours on the long drive back. It’s surprising how well you can get to know someone when you spend several hours a day doing nothing but talking.
Between the drive there and the drive back, I’m clocking four or five hours of Mickey in my ear.
I’m getting better at reading him. The way he goes quiet when he’s tired.
The pause he takes before he says something he actually means.
The little exhale right before he tells me goodnight, like hanging up is the last thing he wants to do.