Chapter 40 Sloan
Sloan
Then - Seattle
“You gave me a note on herbal remedies for headaches commonly used in traditional Middle Eastern medicine instead of your proposal brief.”
It takes me a second—I look up from my computer, frowning with a slow blink.
Dr. Amore slides into the chair across from me, resting her elbows on top of her canvas tote. She folds her hands, interlaced fingers propping up her chin as she smiles patiently at me.
“Pardon me?” I blink again, eyes tracking across the busy campus café, unable to focus on one thing because I’ve been reading about the efficacy of minimally invasive neurology procedures to treat migraines.
“You gave me a note on herbal remedies for headaches commonly used in traditional Middle Eastern medicine instead of your proposal brief,” she repeats, words calm and soft.
She’d be great at telling bedtime stories—it’s exactly the kind of voice that would lull a child to sleep.
But it sends a warning signal to my nervous system, and my heart speeds up in my chest. I blink again, too much now, and my lungs do this funny thing where they expand, but I don’t think any air comes in.
“I didn’t mean to.” My voice cracks, and my hands fumble to close my computer as quickly as possible so she can’t see more evidence written across my screen—all the ways I’m failing at being a graduate student.
She sighs, features pinching before she purses her lips. Not in a harsh way, but like she’s chewing something over. “How’s Bohdan, Sloan?”
“Fine,” I lie, sitting up and folding my own hands across my laptop in a sorry imitation of Dr. Amore. My fingers don’t lie still like hers. They start tapping out counts of three before I can stop them.
One brow rises, breaking right through the falsehood. “And how are you?”
“I have my proposal right here.” I dodge the question like it’s a bullet, and it is—at least a metaphorical one.
My tapping draws attention to the laptop.
My proposal is in there, a dusty virtual folder that hardly gets touched anymore.
It’s not very good—probably the worst thing I’ve ever produced in my entire academic career—because I can’t be bothered to do anything other than search for something that might fix Bohdan.
“That’s not what I asked.” She tilts her head, wisps of hair framing her face. “I asked how you’re doing.”
“I’m just tired,” I whisper, scrunching my nose. “Bohdan’s been having trouble sleeping.”
It’s another lie, but a half one. He either sleeps too much or not at all.
She nods, slow and thoughtful, and her hand finds mine, stilling my tapping fingers. “What’s that saying? You have to put your own oxygen mask on first?”
She doesn’t understand. Bohdan took care of me. He carried burdens and worries and horrible, ugly thoughts on his back with the promise of me returning the favour one day.
It’s my turn.
“I am. It’s on, I mean. My mask.” I make a vague gesture to my face. “I’m getting enough oxygen.” I force a smile. I think I feel the corners of my mouth crack, and if she’d just lean a little closer, she’d see what lives inside me—an entirely oxygen-deprived shell of someone who used to be loved.
Her palm flattens against the back of my hand with a reassuring pat, but I can feel what it’s really saying—I don’t believe you.
But she grabs her bag and pushes to stand.
“I’ll give you another week’s extension.
But it needs to be in by then, Sloan. Otherwise, you won’t be on track to finish on time.
” She holds up her hands when my face falls, giving me away.
“And that would be okay, you know. I don’t think a single PhD in the history of PhDs has been completed on time. ”
I start to shake my head, fingers extending into space and desperate for something new to cling to—I certainly can’t count to three on my relationship, and not on this laptop holding the only thing I’m supposed to be good at—but she presses a hand to my shoulder with a reassuring squeeze.
“Take your time. Think about it. You can take a leave or a break if you need. You’re caregiving, after all.”
Dr. Amore leaves me in this crowded café with my shut laptop and those words that really just sound like failure.
You’re caregiving.
Not really. Not the way I think it should look.
I can’t be taking care of Bohdan—at least, not the way he took care of me.
He hardly speaks and when he does, it’s not really to me, it’s just sort of these strung-together words that fall from the mouth I’ve loved since I was eighteen, not the person who used to live inside the body that’s become a shell.
I can’t be very good at it, if that’s what I’m doing.
It’s another thing I wasn’t enough for.
That new worry slides into my backpack, sitting haphazardly on the ground by my feet, and it nestles right in beside the ones I’ve carried since I was a child.
I feel the weight of them when I slide the straps onto my shoulders.
It makes my steps home slower.
My legs seem heavier when I get on the bus.
I’m thankful for the elevator in our building that takes me all the way to the top—to that glass-walled apartment that’s become a cage.
Maybe Jay was right all along.
Bohdan’s in our bedroom when I get home. All the curtains are drawn, and the last bits of sun peak out from underneath them when they flutter in the breeze.
There’s old game tape playing on the TV in the living room, and there’s an exercise mat on the floor.
None of those things are good signs.
His brain is horribly cruel on days his body doesn’t cooperate.
I gave up trying to tell him that I love him and the capabilities of his body don’t really factor in for me. I don’t think he was really listening, anyway.
I wouldn’t listen to me. I’m clearly not very good at much.
My backpack hits the floor by our door with this impossibly dull thud. It’s all those extra worries. All that baggage. All that not-enoughness that echoes through the empty apartment.
Before Bohdan got hurt, it’s not an echo you’d ever have been able to hear.
But you can hear it loud and clear now.
Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.
I’m a bit quicker getting to our bedroom than I’ve been walking around since I talked to Dr. Amore—I dropped those failures with the bag, but I feel them, nipping and grabbing at my heels, dragging me back with each step I take.
I try to kick them off when I get to the door. I grab the frame and shake out each foot before I sprint on quiet feet towards our bed, swinging my legs up so no monsters can grab me, even though they’re already in the room with us.
It wakes Bohdan, even though I tried hard to be quiet.
He cringes, eyes blinking slowly before he scrubs his face and rolls over to look at me. The navy sheets shift, falling just below the curved muscles of his arm.
I changed the sheets back.
The seafoam-green wasn’t doing anything but hurting me.
He gives me a rare smile. Lazy. Lovely.
I don’t think he’s really awake yet. And as horrible as it is, this is my favourite him now.
The him like the one he used to be—before he wakes up and realizes the world stole from him and he’s so, so sad.
“Hey,” he whispers, words rough, but I feel like they’re smoothing out all the worry lines stretching across my face, and pushing away the frown of my bottom lip.
“Hi. Can we—can we talk? I had—I had a bad day.” I sniff, reaching out to touch him, but I think better of it at the last minute and flatten myself down on my side of the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
“Of course we can talk, Zlatí?ko,” he murmurs, and his thumb swipes across my left cheek.
I inhale sharply. I don’t remember the last time he called me that, and I certainly don’t remember the last time he touched me the way he used to—with reverence and love and lust and starlight.
It makes me brave.
“I feel like I can’t do anything right .
. . and I’m trying so, so hard. It’s just not enough.
It’s never enough. I know it’s silly but I bought you this new plant, these new sheets, I’ve looked up all these things you can try .
. . and I know I’m not the team doctor, and I know I’m not in your brain or your body, but I’m trying so hard, Bohdan.
I want you to have whatever you want—it’s what I’ve always wanted.
I can’t fix anything. I can’t fix this for you the way you fixed things for me.
I can’t even remember to submit the right papers for school and I’m behind on my grading.
I don’t think my students really like me anymore.
I don’t think you really like me anymore.
But I’m still here, and I came all this way .
. . I came here for you. The only thing I’ve ever really wanted is you.
The only thing I’ve ever really been sure of is you, and will you please, please just let me in?
Please just talk to me. Whatever horrible, depraved things you’re thinking.
I promise I’ll treat them with care. All your thoughts.
You . . . the way you are now. I just . . . need you. Please?”
He says nothing. I don’t even feel him shift in the bed.
I hope I didn’t hurt his feelings. I know it’s not his fault. I know his brain is wreaking havoc and waging a war he can’t win.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I breathe in and out before rolling over to face him.
He’s still here.
Physically, at least.
But he’s not here, not really.
He’s asleep.