3. Jay
Chapter three
Jay
I take short, careful steps down the long corridor, one hand ghosting over the rail along the wall, not quite using it for support, but ready to grab it, just in case. It’s been nearly five months since my injury, but more than a few minutes of walking is often still a struggle. And as someone who used to be able to run ten miles with a weighted backpack and barely break a sweat, it’s more than a little frustrating. I reach the end of the corridor just as my leg buckles. I catch myself on the rail, before slamming an open palm against the cool, white plaster on the wall.
The physiotherapist might be pleased with my progress, but I’m sure as fuck not. It’s been long enough. Surely I should be able to walk for more than a few minutes by now. I feel weak. Useless. I miss being able to just walk places—around a supermarket to buy food, even. I miss going out for a run, sweating out the stress of the day and clearing my mind of everything but my feet on the pavement.
Fuck, I miss sleeping through the night and not waking up with numbness and pins and needles in my leg.
“You’re doing great.” I know my physiotherapist’s tone is supposed to be encouraging, but it sounds more patronising than anything else. Cody, a small, skinny brunette with a septum piercing and tiny stars tattooed on each knuckle, crouches at my feet and holds her hands inches from my leg. I lean back with both hands on the rail, supporting my weight against it and balancing on my left leg. My right foot rests against the floor without bearing any weight.
“May I?” She looks up at me with cartoon-large brown eyes behind Coke bottle glasses. I nod, pushing a heavy breath through pursed lips. If it’ll get me out of here quicker, she can do whatever she needs to. Her cool hands make contact with my skin and I hiss, my leg trembling as I force myself not to pull back.
“Did I hurt you?” She lifts her hands away immediately.
“No,” I sigh. “It’s…” It’s what? I don’t even know. “It’s tender.”
“That’s normal,” Cody says to my shin, chilly fingers probing gently at the freshly-knitted scars. “Put your foot down.”
I shift my weight onto my right leg, trying not to grimace.
“The grafts look like they’re healing nicely. What’s the surgeon said about them?”
“He’s happy enough. Suppose someone ought to be.” I bite out between my teeth. My skin is beginning to itch. I need her hands off me. I need everything off me. I need to get out of here. I need to not be touched.
“And the leg? How are you finding the weight bearing? You never did wear a support boot, did you?” Her fingers prod at one of the almost-completely-healed surgical scars.
“Couldn’t. Skin grafts.” I hiss. “It’s tender. It hurts at night.” I hate admitting it, but Cody has been my physiotherapist since I returned to London, and despite being smaller than most high school students and freshly qualified and licensed to practice, she’s already perfectly capable of seeing through—and calling me out on—all of my bullshit. Including the lies about being fine.
It’s fine , from a medical perspective. Because of the multiple skin graft surgeries required on both legs, and the infection that had me in a coma and almost cost me my right leg for a second time, the bone break and the metal rod repair were all but healed before I was finally discharged from the hospital. But it still hurts and I can’t shake the fear that it always will.
“We can talk about some pain relief for that.” Cody’s hands leave my leg and I heave a sigh of relief as she stands. The top of her head meets the line of my nipples and she leads me in a slow, steady walk across the hallway to her office.
“Not needed,” I insist. “I don’t need drugs.”
“If you’re in pain, Mr Bevan…”
“Jay.”
“Jay. If you’re in pain, there are things we can do. You don’t need to suffer.” She takes a seat behind her desk and I drop heavily into the chair opposite.
“Look, Cody.” I try my hardest not to sneer, but I’m not sure how successful I am in that particular endeavour. I lean across her desk towards her. “I’m going to be suffering either way. I don’t need drugs. I don’t want drugs. I need my leg to start fucking working, and once it does, I’ll be on my merry fucking way. So just tell me what I need to do for that, and I’ll do it.”
To her credit, Cody barely bats an eyelid at my attitude. I pull myself back to my own side of her desk and slump down in the chair.
“Your leg is working just fine, Jay,” she says calmly, like I’m not being a complete prick. “It’s taking your weight. It’s healing well. It looks exactly as I’d hope to see it. Better, even. Given time and more rehabilitation, there’s no reason you won’t be back to full strength, or something close to it.”
“How much fucking time is it going to take?”
Cody flips a manila folder closed and sets her hands together on top of it, regarding me silently for a moment before leaning closer.
“How long is a piece of string, Mr Bevan?” She raises a full, fluffy eyebrow. “Keep doing the exercises you’ve been given. Don’t overdo things. Listen to your body. And take a damn painkiller once in a while if it’s hurting. An over-the-counter one will do. Pain is your body’s way of telling you something’s wrong—”
“Of course something’s wrong, my fucking leg doesn’t work.”
“Your leg works perfectly fine, Mr Bevan. You can take my professional advice, or you can suffer on your own. How are you coping at work—how’s the leg doing?”
“Fine,” I answer sullenly.
“You’ve started driving the armoured money vans now, haven’t you?”
I started my hands-off training for the job shortly before leaving the hospital, and jumped straight into the physical aspect the day after my discharge. It’s been a couple of weeks now.
“I’m a cash in transit driver, yes,” I correct her. Like a grade-A dickhead. If I were her, I’d probably have kicked me in the nuts by now.
“I’m glad to hear your leg is handling the demands of the job, I’m sure it’s not easy. Now, I imagine you have plans for the rest of the afternoon—I know I certainly do. Enjoy the rest of your day, and I’ll see you next Thursday.”
I hold back a growl as I haul myself into a standing position. My leg is fucking killing me after our session, and I try to hide the limp by taking slow, deliberate steps as I leave the office. I stop only for a moment in the men’s room to swap my basketball shorts for jeans, then take a slow walk back to my car. My gait is uneven now and I have no idea if I’ll ever walk comfortably again, never mind run. It’s not like I was an athlete, anyway. But running used to be a way for me to clear my mind and avoid thinking. Without it, I have nothing else to do but think. And thinking is the last thing I want to do. Thinking brings about feelings I don’t want to feel—the anger, the resentment, the guilt.
Thinking reminds me that I’m here and others—my friends, my brothers—aren’t. It’s easier to just not let myself think or feel at all.
I lower myself into the car and slam the door closed. Finally. My ears ring as the world tilts just barely off-axis. Enough to be uncomfortable, but not quite enough to make everything spin. I sit for a few beats before I hold my foot on the clutch and push the button to start the engine.
The radio begins to blast a loud symphony with booming brass and crashing cymbals, and I jab my finger at the button a few times before hitting it. Fuck. My pulse races, throbbing in my wrists and my throat. I let my head fall back against the headrest, giving myself another moment to regain control of my senses before carefully levering the car into gear and pulling out of my parking space. I drive home in silence, my only company the patter of raindrops on the metal roof and the occasional squeal of my worn-out wipers on the windscreen.
Before I realise where I’m headed, I steer the car through the archway of Ruth’s block of flats and turn into one of the visitor spaces. I pull sharply at the handbrake, feeling the car rock on its suspension, and jam my thumb into the ignition button to kill the engine. A quiet alarm sounds as I open the door, and I reach back in to turn off my headlights before slamming the door, clicking the lock button on my key fob, and limping to the nearest building.
Ordinarily, I’d push myself and take the stairs, but I’m drained, mentally and physically. I tap my foot impatiently as I wait for the lift, and continue tapping as it takes an age to carry me up four floors to Ruth’s door.
“It’s me, Roofus,” I call as I rap my knuckles against her door. I continue to play my hand against the door until I hear heavy footfalls on the other side.
“What the hell are you doing here?” My sister yanks the door open, a tea towel slung over her shoulder, and pulls me into a hug. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, of course.”
“Yeah, just… thought I’d stop in and say hi.” Like I wasn’t here for dinner last night.
Familiar eyes search my face, her expression telling me quite plainly that she’s not convinced by my story. I don’t blame her. It’s a shitty lie, and she’s always been able to see right through me. Thankfully, she doesn’t press any further. She takes my arm and pulls me into her home, shoving me out of the hallway toward the open-plan living space. I peek through the door and see the backs of two heads on the sofa, one blonde, one dark. A loud, girlish giggle rings through the room, and a blue stuffed dinosaur appears over the top of the furniture before falling out of view.
“Look who’s here,” Ruth sings. “Jay, this is my goddaughter, Maisy. Amie’s daughter.”
“She’s my goddaughter too,” Katy protests with a grin, reaching out for the little girl.
“Who’s here, Aunty Roo?” A small voice—the same one responsible for the squeals of laughter—comes from under the coffee table. A little head full of curly hair pops up as I approach the back of the sofa. She has bright, leaf-green eyes and a mischievous smile; she looks a lot like Cam.
“Come here, Maisy Mouse.” I recognise that voice. The two heads on the sofa turn to me at the same time. Amie and Katy offer matching smiles as Amie straightens the floppy yellow bow in Maisy’s hair. “Mae, this is Aunty Roo’s big brother. Can you say hello?”
“Hello! You play dinosaurs?”
Katy chuckles, and Ruth nudges me with an elbow, urging me further into the room.
“I can play dinosaurs,” I agree with a nod. Gingerly, I lower myself to the edge of the sofa, stretching out my right leg in front of me with a heavy exhale. “How do we play?”
Maisy squeaks with excitement, clutching the stuffed toy before opening her mouth and roaring. She’s remarkably loud for someone so small, and I try not to grimace as the sound quickly becomes shrill and rings in my ears.
“Okay, Maisy Pop, why don’t we play quiet dinosaurs?” Katy grabs the small girl around the waist and pulls her into her lap. She tickles her belly lightly and kisses her hair. It’s sweet, the way my sister and her friends are so close, the way they all love Amie’s daughter so much. It’s the kind of chosen family I had once. The kind I’d do anything for, who’d do anything for me. The kind I miss so fiercely when I sit at home alone. The kind I’m afraid I might never find anywhere again.
It frightens me, the thought of getting close to someone again, knowing how easy it would be to lose them in an instant. But the sliver of warmth that blooms in my chest when Amie grins at me, and the electricity that zaps across my skin when Katy’s bare arm makes incidental contact with mine have me wondering if letting myself feel something again might not be so bad.
“Planes? Aunty K, you play planes with me?”
“I’ll play planes with you,” I offer. The girl cheers and wriggles out of Katy’s grasp, slapping her socked feet down onto the laminate flooring and padding over to me. She drags a yellow backpack out from under the coffee table and dumps its contents on the floor at my feet. I’m surrounded by diecast models of planes, dinosaur figurines, and a couple of cars and trucks. One or two of them look familiar, like they might have come from mine or Ruth’s childhood toy collections at some point.
I pick up an old, paint-chipped car and turn it over in my hands. There it is. A small, almost completely worn splodge of silver nail polish marks the plastic underbody. Mum’s way of distinguishing between my toys and Ruth’s when I was a territorial pre-teen too attached to let go, and Ruth was a needy, jealous toddler. Katy looks at me, lips pressed into a curious half-smile.
“These are my planes,” Maisy announces with a somber expression, distracting me from my thoughts. “Daddy make real planes fly!”
“Oh, he does? That’s pretty cool.” I remember chatting with Cam about his job, among other things. He seems pretty cool, too. We like the same music, and we definitely bonded over our love of classic American muscle cars. I think we’ll get along just fine. I even found myself looking forward to hanging out with him again—a foreign feeling, something I haven’t felt for a while. It’s been a long time since I’ve had friends—at least, ones who weren’t at immediate risk of losing an arm or a leg or a life.
Maisy nods seriously. “He not here. He flying.”
I glance up at Katy, who is resting a hand on Amie’s arm. Amie’s eyes are glossy as she watches her daughter with a soft, sad smile.
“He flies out of San Francisco for now but he’s moving bases soon,” Katy explains quietly. “He’s manipulated his schedule pretty well, he’s home for two weeks—but that means he’s away for two weeks at a time, too.”
“She misses him,” Amie murmurs. I see Katy’s fingers tighten on Amie’s arm as she presses herself closer to her friend. I pick up a plane and roll it along the floor towards Maisy, who giggles, her sadness all but forgotten already.
“S’hard being away so much,” I agree quietly, following it up with a sigh. “You miss a lot.”
Amie offers a tight smile. The tension is broken when Ruth whips the kitchen countertop with the tea towel from her shoulder and calls across to us.
“You staying for Fancy Nugs Night, Bro?”
“What the fu—” I glance at Maisy, and then at Amie and Katy. “What in the world are Fancy Nugs ?”
“Roo makes homemade nuggets,” Amie supplies, a dreamy, lovesick smile curling her lips, contrasting the wistful one from a moment earlier. “They’re the best. I keep asking for the recipe but she won’t give it up.”
“Selfish hoe,” Katy adds under her breath.
Oh, I’m pretty sure I know exactly what those homemade nuggets are, and they’re a childhood favourite—a staple in the Bevan household. I don’t think I’ve eaten them since the last time I returned from Afghanistan, and I’m practically salivating at the thought.
“Yeah, she’s not giving that one up. If you’re making Granny Bevan’s Friday Chicky Bits, Rooey, I’m in.”
I see Amie mouth the words Friday Chicky Bits to Katy, who shrugs and smiles that sunshine smile that has a comfortable warmth flooding my veins. Ruth’s laughter rings out across her living room as she launches into a story involving work, and I slide down to the floor to join Maisy and her planes, leaning back against the sofa beside Katy’s legs. Katy leans forward, her blonde hair hanging over my shoulder as she snags a plane and waves it through the air, flying it towards Maisy.
I’m caught between the fresh citrus of her perfume and the comforting familiarity of my favourite spice blend from my sister’s kitchen, and between that and the laughter coming from every corner of the room, for the first time since my return, it feels really fucking good to be home.