17. Roman
17
ROMAN
I walked.
And I have Lily’s number in my pocket.
I must have a look of shell-shocked glee on my face, because the moment I load into my mom’s van, she does a triple-take.
“Oh my God, what happened?” she demands. “You look…happy. You never look happy after therapy. What happened??”
I debate for a moment if I just want to deny everything to avoid the conversation but… she looks so happy that I can’t do it to her.
I let out a heavy breath and make a half-admission. “I managed some assisted walking today.”
Thank God, she hasn’t pulled out of the parking lot yet, because her jaw-drop tells me it would’ve resulted in a brake-slam.
“Roman!” she squeals. And when nothing else comes out, she says it again. “ Roman! ”
I huff a laugh. “I know, I was pretty shocked, too.”
“This is huge! Oh my gosh, we have to celebrate.”
Victory aside, I’m still hesitant to truly hope. “I still have a long way to go. This just means the therapy is working.”
“Apparently.” Her eyes dart over to the clinic building. “Any idea what’s different about this place?”
Yeah. The therapist.
“No idea,” I lie instead. “I’m just glad it’s working.”
Her focus moves back to me, a warm smile on her face. “Me too, sweetheart,” she says softly.
I return the smile, my chest warming at the sight of my mom being so giddy.
Her excitement is still palpable when she faces forward and grips the steering wheel. “Alright, well, even if you don’t want to celebrate, I still want to do something special. Are we still on for dinner tonight?”
“Of course,” I answer. “Always.”
Once a week, Mom and I do a breakfast for dinner date night. It was recommended by an old therapist a year ago, and the idea stuck. Her theory was that with Mom being my sole caretaker and a huge crutch for me, I needed to remember that she was still my mother, too. That she loved me outside of my injury and would always be a mother over a nurse. She suggested we put a weekly date on the calendar to ensure we spend time together as a family. We’ve tried movie nights, brunch dates, and a dozen other ideas, but the one we keep coming back to a breakfast for dinner. I think because it reminds me of my childhood, and the nights that Mom gave in to my near-constant requests for pancakes. Now, we make the pancakes together, chatting about our week as we cook. It’s easy, comforting.
When we reach the house, Mom is still chattering about the bonus breakfast foods she’s going to make tonight, reciting her grocery list to herself and planning to make way too much food for two people.
“Anyway, honey, I’m going to run out to the grocery store real quick and grab what we need,” she says. “Should we say dinner at eight?”
I nod. “Perfect. That gives me some time to clean myself and the house a little bit.”
“You know I could do that for you,” she says in the mothering tone she occasionally defaults to. Sure enough, when I give her a look that reads as my usual answer of please don’t baby me , she reddens.
“Sorry, that just came out,” she mumbles. “I promise that was a mom instinct, not a pity one.”
I lean across the van to kiss her on the cheek. “I know, Mom. I appreciate you.” I start to unhook my chair so I can unload from the van. “Eight o’clock, then. It’s a date.”
When I enter my house, I do a scan to see how much I need to clean up before Mom gets back. The cleanliness of my house has always been an obvious representation of my well-being, because in the past, usually during my deepest depressive episodes, the house would become disgusting. I couldn’t summon the energy to do anything besides order takeout and play video games, and that always resulted in unswept floors, dishes in the sink and all over the counter, and rotten food in the fridge. That was the only time in my life when Mom did need to come in to clean, if for no other reason than to keep me from getting sick.
But lately, I’ve been keeping up with everything, for the most part. Looking around now, I decide there’s not a lot I need to do besides unloading the dishwasher, wiping down the counters, and straightening a few things in the living room. I throw my couch blanket in the wash and turn the Roomba on for good measure, but beyond that, I don’t have much on the to-do list.
I shower and change into fresh clothes, realizing I still have an hour before Mom shows up. So I decide to kill time by starting in on the tasks I’ve been putting off.
When Mikey walks in a little before eight o’clock, I’m in the middle of unloading the books from my bookshelves and dusting.
Having heard the beep of the front door keypad, I finish wiping down the shelf I’m on before I turn around. When I do, I find Mikey staring slack-jawed at the sight in front of him.
“Did I just walk into Bizarro World?” he asks.
I roll my eyes and lean down to pick up the books I need to re-shelve. “Very funny. Come be useful and help me.”
He must be really shocked because he follows directions without a single argument. He simply walks over and picks up a handful of books.
“So what prompted this freakish occurrence?” he asks. Suddenly, he frowns and looks at me, his eyes narrowing. “Are you on drugs?”
I toss a balled-up paper towel at his face. “You’re an idiot.”
He swats it away. “Hey, that’s no crazier than walking in to see you dusting . What’s going on?”
I shrug. “Had some time to kill. Felt like being productive.”
His eyes widen. “Oh shit, it’s your day with your mom. Fuck, I totally forgot. I’ll leave.”
“Don’t even think about leaving, Michael,” comes my mom’s voice as she walks through the door. “I’m pretty sure I bought enough food to feed a dozen seventeen-and-going-through-his-first-growth-spurt Romans, so we’re going to need you.”
Mikey claps his hands together. “Don’t have to ask me twice, Mama Dubs. How can I help?”
She lifts two gigantic fistfuls of grocery bags onto the counter. “Can you mix the pancake batter? I want to start on the stuffed French Toast.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, already walking into the kitchen.
I hear him rustling through the bags as I turn back to my bookshelves, and I already know what his next question is going to be. Sure enough, after a moment, he asks, “So...what’s the occasion? Between the all-you-can-eat buffet that this is about to be and Roman’s inexplicable cleaning, I’m assuming something happened.”
I glance over my shoulder to meet Mom’s eyes for a beat. She reads me easily.
“Roman had a good day at therapy, that’s all,” she says, giving in to my silent request to not make a big deal out of things. I send her a grateful smile. “Plus, you know me, I’ll take any excuse to make a big brunch.”
I think Mikey might sense that there’s something more, but it’s possible he also caught the look we just shared and realizes I’d prefer to move on to a different topic. So he does.
“Well, whatever the reason, my mouth is already watering. Damn, Mama Dubs, where did you find cinnamon rolls on a Saturday night?”
As I push myself into the kitchen, I catch my mom’s proud smile. “I have my secrets.” But then her smile straightens when Mikey tries to quickly swipe some icing off one of the rolls with his finger. Slapping his hand away, she says, “Good Lord , at least wait until I take it out of the box.”
Properly scolded, Mikey hangs his head as she sends him into the cabinet for a plate. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
I can’t help shaking my head with a chuckle at their antics. Being my best friend in middle school, Mikey obviously knew my mom when we were kids, but it never ceases to amaze me that they’ve somehow managed to keep the same relationship as adults.
“What do you want me to do, Mom?” I peek into one of the bags. “Damn, you really did buy a whole buffet. How many courses are we having?”
“Four,” she says cheerfully. And with the way she says it, I don’t even think she’s kidding.
When she pulls orange juice and a bottle and champagne out of the bags, I quirk an eyebrow at her. “What?” she asks innocently. We’re celebrating , she mouths at me, which just makes me smile.
“Want me to make you one?” she asks.
I only consider it for a second before I shake my head. “No, thank you. Just orange juice is fine.”
That only seems to make her more excited. Smacking a kiss on my cheek, she says, “You can get started on the eggs and bacon then. Growing boys need their protein.”
At that, Mikey flexes his arm and makes a muscle. “Yes, we do. It’s bulking season, baby.”
I quirk an eyebrow at my best friend as I take the bowl offered by my mom. “Since when? You’ve never had an interest in lifting.”
He shrugs as he starts to mix the pancake batter. “I don’t know. Ever since I stopped playing in those basketball leagues, I’ve been thinking about picking something else up. I thought maybe it was time to choose something that didn’t necessarily lead to having to compete.”
I think carefully about my next words. This is the closest that Mikey and I have ever gotten to talking about sports or physical activities since my accident. But I also know him well enough that if he’s talking about it, he’s been thinking about it a lot.
“So then what’s stopping you?” I finally ask. “If you want to do it…”
He shrugs again. “I just feel a little stupid. I don’t know anything about lifting. It feels wrong to jump into it when I’m this clueless.”
Later, I’ll think about the relief that fills my body in this moment. About how good it feels to finally be able to give Mikey something when, for over a year, it’s been him helping me .
About how it feels like the most natural thing in the world to say, “I can start you on a lifting program, if you want.”
When both Mom and Mikey lift surprised gazes to me, I hurry to add, “Plus, I have my gym in the back room. I know it’s not an LA Fitness, but there’s enough equipment in there that I can give you the gist of the main exercises for the different muscle groups. I obviously can’t demonstrate the lower body exercises, but I could at least write you a plan and?—”
“I would love that,” Mikey interrupts my nervous babbling. “Thanks, man. That would be a huge help.”
A second wave of relief flows through me, and I nod before returning to cracking the eggs. “Cool,” I say on a heavy exhale.
Mom also returns to her French Toast, but not before I see a sheen in her eyes. And her voice is oddly high-pitched when she says, “Well, on that note…we’re going to need some extra eggs, Roman.”
I don’t bother trying to stop my smile. “You got it, Mom.”