Chapter 14
Tilly
Five days is nowhere near the longest hospital stay I’ve ever had, but I’ve never been so excited and ready to leave. I hate being in the hospital when I’m sick; I hate being in the hospital even more when I’m healthy.
Which is why, when I’m trudging up the stairs to my third-floor unit, Blaise behind me with one hand at the base of my spine, the other carrying Donovan in his car seat, I grit my teeth and refuse to admit that my abdomen is on fire.
I just need to get inside and sit for a moment, then I’ll be fine.
He unlocks the door but holds it open for me, his hand high up above my head to give me space to pass. I’m the first one in, and I force myself to walk in confidently, but my stomach buzzes and churns.
He told me he was getting the apartment taken care of, but I was running a fever at the time, so I didn’t really process it except to assume my apartment would be tidied up when I got home. The thought existed without any visual, any thought to how I would feel about it.
It was a disaster before. Not unlivable, and it was easy for me to say the counter was a bit messy and there were a couple dishes in the sink and I needed to put laundry away and . . . and, well, it was a thousand little tasks. A thousand cuts.
I was dying.
I need to sit down before I can let my feelings take over, but when I start to pull out a chair from the ancient dining table, now cleared and polished, the water marks buffed out, Blaise grunts. “Bed. Now.”
It’s what I want, but I also want to protest. I don’t know what I would have done if Blaise hadn’t taken the time out of his life — I guess this is the time of year when he has infinite time — to help me this past week, but he’s also acted like I’ve personally offended him when I never even asked for his help.
He doesn’t give me a chance to voice my protest, though. Or he makes it so I don’t feel obligated to because his attitude makes me prickly. “Doctor’s orders, remember?”
“But Donovan—” I start, already knowing that saying he needs to be cared for is going to go nowhere. But I have to at least act like I’m ready for this. Blaise padded my entry into single motherhood, but I’m still here.
“Is sound asleep. I guess the car thing really does work.” He says it with a soft, easy smile, basking down on baby Donovan.
If I’m being real, if I’m being really real, if I indulge my fantasies for even the smallest second, if I could make a wish to whatever angel or demon has dictated every wild turn my life is taking, it would be to have Blaise look at me like that.
I grab a couple of the quilts Joss has made me over the years, folded and tucked into one of my fabric cubbies and smelling freshly washed but unperfumed, and roll them up.
I use them to shape something like the bed I was on at the hospital, creating both a back rest and a prop for under my knees, before kicking off my shoes.
With the assistance I needed for the most basic of care at the hospital, Blaise has seen every inch of me in the most unflattering moments, everything but my baldish head, thanks to the caps I had stashed in my overnight bag, but I resist the urge to undress further before climbing into my nest.
I close my eyes for a long moment, only opening them when I hear the click of the buckle on Donovan’s car seat as Blaise picks him up. My eyes don’t go to them, though. They go all around my apartment.
The clean kitchen, its counters spotless, its dishes shelved.
All the lesser-used appliances have been tucked away somewhere.
The trash can with the broken lid has been replaced.
The floors have been mopped. There’s a box of random stuff, no doubt items the cleaners didn’t know what to do with, but it’s a pretty box.
The den, such as it is, is emptied of clothes, the sofa looking like it got hit with a steam vac and the coffee table cleared. The piles have been organized, everything put where it belongs, tucked into another discreet, pretty box, and now, there’s a beautiful flower arrangement in a fancy vase.
My work station, the one area I was stressed about since there is a method to my madness, seems to have been addressed by someone who understood.
There are no boxes, no wild organization, other than a new whiteboard that has a lot of the loose paperwork stuck to it with magnets.
I can see everything’s been dusted, though, and although nothing other than the paperwork has been removed, everything simply looks neater.
I can’t see into my bathroom from here, but I swear I can smell the cleaning products wafting from it, the scents light and refreshing.
I sniffle. I don’t mean to. I guess I just don’t realize how congested my nose is when I take a deep breath.
Blaise’s eyes flash right to me, his reflexes like lightning. He looks genuinely concerned, too, but only for a second before it cools to indifference. Still, he asks, “You need something?” and that’s gotta count for a little.
“The flowers are pretty, that’s all,” I murmur, hoping he gets that I appreciate the gesture.
“They’re from the Allores.”
“Oh.”
“Word got around.”
“Yeah.”
And that’s it. He doesn’t say anything else, and he ignores the tears that start flowing, no matter how hard I hold them back.
He had to pay for someone to come clean for me.
Complete strangers went through every single article of clothing, every bill, every deadline that’s been missed.
They dealt with a pile of dishes and the mold I’m sure was growing under the ancient bottles of shampoo that have lived, untouched, for over a year on the ledge of my bathtub.
Did they go through my pill bottles? Did they look up the names? Did they feel some sympathy for me over the cancer I struggled with for so long, and do I even deserve that sympathy when I was fully capable of cleaning up after myself but didn’t?
And it’s so easy in this moment to tell myself that I’ll start now.
The baby stuff has been organized, the essentials now easy to find and accessible, but nothing has been assembled.
It’s easy to tell myself that I will do it, but will I really?
Am I really going to be able to take care of Donovan?
If I’m not, what will everyone think of me?
How much will they hate me?
Tears run freely down my cheeks, but I keep myself quiet as Blaise goes through the stuff the hospital gave us and sets up a little changing pad on the recliner I scored from Goodwill a few years back but never ended up using.
By the time he’s finished changing Donovan’s diaper, I’ve fallen asleep.
It’s nighttime when I awake, but I couldn’t say how late it is.
Blaise is reclining next to me in bed, his long, lean body stretched nearly the full length of the bed despite being propped up, Donovan drooling on his chest. His attention is fully on the TV as he sifts through the catalog of a streaming service, but I don’t watch the screen. I watch his face.
His face is everywhere in Wilmington, on product ads and promotional materials for the team.
There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t see him on a bus or a billboard.
In the ads, no matter how he’s posed or what he’s selling, he’s got this impish look, like he’s getting away with something.
No surprises, since everyone knows they’ve got a leash on him they tighten with every loophole he attempts to sneak through.
The Juggernauts give him a more fun-loving, innocent vibe, bordering on buffoonery.
There are enough intense, angry-looking guys on the team.
Blaise fills in a different sort of all-American vibe.
The future of America. The American dream, accessible to anyone, not just those in the right demographics.
But that’s not the Blaise that intrigues me. There’s enough trouble in my life without having to hunt for it. And I can make poor decisions all by myself.
There’s another side to him that’s shrewd.
Observant. It’s widely known that Gabe is the one in communication with the coaches and making most of the decisions about plays, but Blaise is notorious for going off-script and is incredibly successful with it.
He’s not lucky, he’s amazing, and he’s not nearly so stupid or careless as everyone makes him out to be.
In the constantly changing glow of the television, his eyes dart around, taking in everything on the screen as he flips rapidly. He doesn’t read descriptions, just looks at thumbnails, but his concentration is hyper-focused, searching for something.
Donovan sighs. Barely. I wouldn’t have noticed if Blaise didn’t reflexively start patting his bottom.
He’s doing nothing impressive, just living his life, but this is where it’s painfully obvious that he’s someone special. And he’s lying in my ancient full-sized bed in my shitty studio apartment, surfing my 32-inch television while holding my baby, whose father’s identity is a mystery.
He finally settles on an obscure, older anime, a sweet fantasy drama geared toward middle school girls.
It’s in Japanese and there are no subtitles on the screen, but I don’t need the captions to know what’s happening.
Blaise settles back and continues to pat Donovan’s bottom, but the baby’s waking up and needs to be fed. He’s going to start to fuss.
“I’ll take him,” I offer.
I’m not surprised that Blaise doesn’t flinch at my voice. I’m betting he noticed the second I opened my eyes. “You need to rest.”
“I need to take care of my baby.”
“There’s a couple pouches of breast milk. I got it. Go back to sleep.”
“Blaise,” I say seriously, needing him to stop dismissing me. I resituate myself and reach for Donovan. “I need to take care of my child. I appreciate everything you’ve done, but I’ve got this.”
I don’t, in fact. But every mom figures it out. We have to. That’s life. If everyone else can do it, so can I.