Chapter 32
REID
Noah woke Saturday determined to leave the apartment.
His determination survived breakfast, the first headache check, the weather forecast, and my reminder that the Harborside Tavern would be louder than any place he had visited since the accident.
“I know.”
“You were exhausted after Elias and Miriam’s.”
“I rested first.”
“That did not prevent an entire day on the couch.”
“I have scheduled a nap.”
“You cannot schedule sleep.”
“I have medication and curtains.”
He ate oatmeal while glaring at me.
The low mood from Friday had lifted, though traces remained around his eyes.
He wanted to go out because he was afraid of losing the future.
That was not the same as wanting to go out because he felt ready.
I needed to know which.
“Why today?”
He set down his spoon.
“Because Caleb and Owen are my friends.”
“Yes.”
“Because Owen is bringing Talia and I want to see whether she is real.”
“She is.”
“Evidence remains limited.”
I waited.
Noah sighed.
“And because I don’t want one article to turn me into someone who stays home waiting for dementia.”
There it was.
“An afternoon at a pub does not defeat neurological risk.”
“No.”
His mouth tightened.
“It reminds me I have a life now.”
I could not argue with that.
“We stay ninety minutes.”
“Two hours.”
“Ninety.”
“One hundred five.”
“Why?”
“Compromise.”
I smiled.
“One hundred five if your head stays below three.”
“Agreed.”
He pointed his spoon at me.
“And no asking every four minutes.”
“Six.”
“Ten.”
“Seven.”
“Fine.”
He napped after breakfast.
While he slept, I washed laundry, cleaned the bathroom, and checked the full clinic portal twice.
No results.
The waiting did not worry me the way it worried Noah. The rapid test results were negative. We had both tested regularly before the accident. Nothing had happened since.
Still, the full results had become more than medical data.
They represented a threshold Noah had chosen.
I wanted the threshold open.
At two, I woke him gently.
He emerged from sleep confused for several seconds, then remembered the plan.
“Pub.”
“Yes.”
“Head?”
“One.”
“Energy?”
“Five.”
“Out of?”
“Enough.”
He dressed in dark jeans for the first time without my help.
It took nearly ten minutes.
He sat on the bed to work the right leg through the denim, paused when his hip protested, then adjusted the angle and succeeded.
A private pride crossed his face.
I pretended not to notice until he stood.
“You look good.”
He turned toward the mirror.
The jeans fit differently after months of lost muscle, but they fit. He wore a cream shirt beneath a dark overshirt and left the top buttons open.
“You look like yourself,” I said.
“Which one?”
“This one.”
He met my gaze in the mirror.
“Good answer.”
I wore black jeans and a blue button-down Noah had chosen from the closet.
He looked me over.
“Those are tight.”
“They fit.”
“Barely.”
“You bought them.”
“The man before had vision.”
I laughed.
He came close and ran one hand over my hip.
“Still good.”
“Dangerous before leaving.”
“Consider it motivation to return.”
At the door, I picked up the walking pole.
Noah looked at it.
Then held out his hand.
No argument.
That worried me until I saw his expression.
He had decided the pole was the price of going somewhere. Not a symbol of failure.
We drove to the Harborside.
The tavern occupied an old cannery building near the public marina. The front room was narrow and dim, but a glassed-in side hall overlooked the docks, and the music there was quieter.
Caleb had reserved a table there.
Even so, the parking lot was uneven.
Noah used the pole and took my arm over the gravel.
“Do not say it.”
“What?”
“That this proves the pole is useful.”
“I was thinking it.”
“Your face is loud.”
Inside, warm air carried the smell of fried onions, cedar smoke, beer, and rain-damp coats.
Noah stopped just beyond the entrance.
People moved in every direction. A server balanced plates. A group near the bar laughed too loudly. Several televisions showed a baseball game.
I touched the base of his neck.
“Too much?”
He breathed.
“Not yet.”
“Side room is through there.”
He nodded.
We moved slowly.
People made space when they saw the pole. Noah noticed and hated it, but he kept walking.
Caleb waved from the far table.
Owen sat beside a woman with dark curls, round glasses, and a rust-colored sweater. She was laughing at something he said, which suggested either great affection or limited standards.
Caleb had brought his wife, Erin, whom Noah knew from photographs and one brief hospital visit he barely remembered.
She stood when we reached the table.
“Noah.”
She did not hug him until he opened his arms.
Then she held him warmly and briefly.
“You look wonderful.”
“I look upright.”
“Also wonderful.”
Caleb pulled out a chair near the wall, the safest position for the pole and the easiest exit.
Owen stood.
“This is Talia.”
The woman smiled.
“So you’re Noah.”
“I was told you might be fictional.”
“Owen is not imaginative enough.”
“That seems true.”
Owen looked offended.
Talia offered her hand.
“Your yard coffee is terrible.”
“We have an expensive machine.”
“That doesn’t make Owen competent.”
I liked her immediately.
We sat.
The noise level in the side room was manageable. Harbor lights reflected across wet windows. Beyond them, boats moved gently against their lines.
I ordered nonalcoholic ginger beer for Noah and me. Caleb chose beer. Erin had sparkling water. Owen ordered something local and pretentious after Talia did.
“You don’t have to match me,” she told him.
“I like cardamom cider.”
“You said it tasted like candle wax last week.”
“Palate development.”
Noah leaned toward me.
“She’s real.”
“I told you.”
The first half hour passed easily.
They talked about the yard, the ferry contract, Talia’s food stall, and Caleb’s daughter Morgan, who had received an acceptance letter from a college in Eugene.
Caleb tried to sound calm.
Failed.
“She wants environmental engineering,” he said.
Erin smiled.
“She has wanted that since she was twelve.”
“She will live three hours away.”
“She will visit.”
“She forgets to call from upstairs.”
Noah watched them.
A future problem.
Ordinary and precious.
“What does she think of leaving?” he asked.
“Excited,” Caleb said. “Terrified.”
“Both can happen.”
Caleb met his gaze.
“Yes.”
The sentence carried more than college.
Our food arrived.
Noah had ordered a salmon sandwich and fries. He ate slowly, listening more than speaking.
The game on the televisions began. Owen and Noah disagreed immediately over a call neither fully understood.
Normalcy settled over the table.
Not perfect normalcy.
Noah’s pole leaned beside him. His medication alarm sounded discreetly. He covered one ear when the main room erupted after a home run.
But he laughed.
He teased Owen.
He asked Talia about the food stall and offered to repair the faulty shore-power connection on her trailer if she brought noodles.
“Discounted labor for noodles?” I asked.
“Barter economy.”
“You recently received a settlement.”
“Still value noodles.”
Talia pointed at him.
“Deal.”
I watched him smile.
The article had not stolen this.
Fear had come with us, perhaps. It had not been given a chair.
Caleb went to order another round.
I followed.
At the bar, he looked toward our table.
“Noah’s doing well.”
“Yes.”
“You?”
The question surprised me.
“Fine.”
He waited.
I sighed.
“Better.”
“Article?”
“He read too much afterward.”
Caleb’s expression tightened.
“Long-term stuff?”
“Yes.”
“I wondered.”
“He thinks he’ll forget me again.”
“What did you say?”
“That I’ll find him.”
Caleb looked at me for a long moment.
“Good answer.”
“It was the only one.”
He picked up Erin’s sparkling water.
“Morgan’s leaving next year.”
“I heard.”
“I spent eighteen years preparing her to go somewhere, and now I’m offended she succeeded.”
I smiled.
“Parenthood appears badly designed.”
“Most love is.”
He glanced toward Noah.
“Still worth it.”
“Yes.”
At the table, Talia had moved into my chair while speaking to Noah. Owen sat opposite them, pretending not to be delighted that they were getting along.
Erin drew Caleb aside as we returned.
He bent to hear her.
Her words changed his face.
Surprise.
Then joy so immediate it made him look younger.
He hugged her.
Owen stopped talking.
“What happened?”
Caleb looked around the table.
Erin laughed.
“I told him not to say anything until next week.”
“You said nothing about facial expressions.”
Noah leaned closer to me.
“Pregnant?”
I whispered, “Maybe.”
Caleb looked at Erin.
She nodded.
He turned back.
“We’re having another baby.”
Owen’s mouth opened.
“Morgan is seventeen.”
“We understand timing.”
Talia laughed.
Erin’s eyes shone.
“It was not planned.”
Caleb took her hand.
“It is wanted.”
The words drew smiles from everyone around the table.
We congratulated them.
Noah smiled with real happiness, but something tender crossed his expression too.
A future arriving.
Not everyone’s future.
Still proof that life continued making room.
Erin looked at him.
“You’ll be Uncle Noah again.”
He blinked.
“Again?”
“Morgan has called you that since she was little.”
He looked toward Caleb.
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I assumed it was in the photos.”
Noah’s eye shone.
“Uncle Noah.”
Erin squeezed his hand.
“She used to follow you around the yard carrying a plastic toolbox.”
A memory did not arrive.
The belonging did.
Noah smiled.
“I’d like to remember that.”
“We have videos,” Caleb said.
“Not today.”
“Whenever.”
Noah nodded.
The game continued.
The side room grew louder as more people arrived.
At ninety minutes, Noah’s speech slowed.
At one hundred minutes, he rubbed his temple.
I placed my hand on his thigh.
“Seven-minute question.”
He looked at me.
“Time.”
“Yes.”
No argument.
He finished his ginger beer and stood carefully.
The others gave him goodbyes without making departure feel like failure.
Talia hugged him.
“Next time, noodles.”
“Next time.”
Owen followed us toward the restrooms because he was going in the same direction.
Noah stopped.
“Bathroom.”
“I’ll show you.”
“I can.”
Owen lifted one hand.
“I’m going.”
I watched them walk away.
Erin noticed.