Chapter 15 #2
“My little truck hasn’t really caught on outside of Snowshoe, but I’m hoping it will.”
But his favorite thing, he tells me? His Little Free Library.
“Ah, I found your collection of books here. I’ve been reading to Whiska. It sounds stupid, but he seems to like our time together. I’m hoping it’s a bonding thing. So that he’ll hate me less.” I stand and move us out of the cold and wander into the bedroom that I’ve been holing up in.
“How could he hate you? And who doesn’t love being read to? The pictures are always so cute. The rhythmic words, so lyrical …” Then he sits up and sort of laughs and sort of grimaces. “Wait! It just hit me! God, when you saw those books, did you think I was an SVU person of interest?”
I giggle. “I did not. There wasn’t a second that I worried about you being a super creep.” It’s so fun to hear my normal laugh again, and I beam. “Chazz Palminteri.”
“Kathy Griffin,” he shoots back.
Then he explains a bit more about the book collections, and also letting me in a bit more.
“My dad used to read to me when I was a kid. Like, all the time. Started with picture books, then chapter books, then stuff for older readers. Like, the Tolkien trilogy.” He pauses, a bit of wistful sadness coming through.
“We were midway through him reading aloud Treasure Island when, I guess, we both realized I was too old to be read to. Maybe I was twelve or so? There was a night when it suddenly felt awkward for both of us. So, we stopped. But it was time. I will never forget that sad but beautiful and poignant moment. As I grew up, I realized that I always wanted to find a way to pass on the idea of sharing books in any way.”
I retrieve a pajama set from the dresser.
“Swiss Family Robinson,” I say. “That would be my equivalent. Or what I wish would have been so. That’s the book I started and loved, yet at some point, it made me feel so alone.
I wanted to share it with someone, but it was always just me.
I remember reading it and thinking how cool it’d be to have a normal parent who wanted to share this.
One who wanted to sit on my bedside and let us experience such a cool story together.
Your parents were amazing and raised the best kiddo ever.
I wish I’d had that, and I sadly doubt I could ever do what they did. Give you what you have.”
I turn to Dave while twisted in my clothes. “I’m sorry, but this fucking cast,” I blurt out.
We both are obviously so tired and trying to figure out how to end this night, how to go to bed. Maybe we’re rambling a bit. My cast is actually some good comic relief, as I’m now tied up in it. It kills me to ask for anything again, but he’s sort of taught me to relent.
“Dave, I need help changing out of these clothes. And with my hair. Again, can you just knot it up? My hair, not my clothes. Those I’ve already done. You told me to ask for help, so I’m asking.”
Very gently and as he looks away, he helps me out of my twisted knot of clothing and into pajamas before setting my hair in a scrunchie.
“You need sleep,” I point out, and he agrees.
“I do,” he says in a sort of barely awake confession. “And I should check on my house tomorrow now that the storm has died down.”
“I’ll go with you for that.”
I insist that I walk him upstairs and properly put him to bed. Payback and thanks for how he’s helped me.
Both of our phones ping with weather alerts. God, this ice storm is going to be unrelenting.
“The roads are still going to be really bad tomorrow.” I say as I force him into bed. “Take your own advice and stay home,” I say. “Stay here. Sleep. Everyone has food stocked for days like today, so nobody is going to starve.”
“I am totally wiped,” he admits as he gets into bed. “You sure I don’t have to get up?”
“Promise,” I whisper and rub the back of my hand against his cheek. “You can just rest. If the other guys go out to plow, they’re insane. Don’t be insane too. You smartly tore me off the road. Tomorrow is a snow day.”
“Oh, like when we were kids?” he murmurs.
“Yes, like when we were kids.”
I pull up the sheets and the duvet and make him into a burrito.
“Why are you taking care of me?” he asks as he snuggles into it. “I should be taking care of you. I haven’t heard you talk about any friends besides Patrick. You seem very alone. And sad. I hate that for you. Just let yourself be miserable for a while.”
It’s seconds before Dave’s breathing is deep and rhythmic, and I sit beside him for a while, listening to and inhaling his peace.
“I hate that for me too.”
After I feel sure he’s settled, I make my way back downstairs.
I’m impossibly tired, but I open a can of cat food. And for the first time, as I turn to the bathroom, I see a curious and calm face peek out. A very happy first.
Tentatively, I bring a plate into the bathroom, and Whiska shockingly emerges from his box and looks vaguely less hateful than usual.
I hold out a hand, and he rubs his cheek against me as he accepts the food.
When I tentatively rub his head, he whips a sharp paw my way.
It’s a good thing I have awesome reflexes. I’ll try again tomorrow.
I dive into my own mattress and bury myself under the layers of cozy bedding.
Snow days are always good, right? Nobody cries on snow days. So, I won’t cry tomorrow.