Chapter Twenty-Three
Zander - Three months later
“Shouldn’t they give you lessons or something for that thing?”
“It’s not that complicated, honey. All I have to do is–” Theresa toggles the little joystick. One minute she was beside me, the next… poof! Gone. “Whoops, wrong way.” I hear from somewhere behind me.
Today was the day Theresa got a wheelchair.
It took a lot of convincing, but Jules ultimately talked her into it.
Her legs are failing rapidly, and whilst there’s always someone around to help her out, her fierce independence makes doing so arduous.
Her pride–along with her determination–dwindled each time we had to step in to assist her.
She started to pass up opportunities to leave the house, making excuses not to meet with friends, and sending Jules and me out with a shopping list rather than coming with us herself.
The most devastating part was watching her smile turn from genuine to something more practised.
Her body was losing the fight, and she was starting to surrender her mind, too.
She fought the idea for a long time, and I understood why– Jules, however, didn’t.
He was relentlessly fighting for her to take back the little bit of independence that she had, even when she had all but given up on the idea.
In the end, he used her own argument of not wanting to be a burden against her– a desperate and very out-of-character move on his behalf. He was close to breaking point.
Over the last three months, there’s been a very distinct shift in him.
It’s the little things that all add up here, and there I’ve come to notice; the way his face now seems to have a hard edge about it, the impatience in his voice, and the way his presence alone no longer lifts the mood of the room.
It’s not intentional, it’s just the dense reality we’re living in.
But it’s killing him, just as fast as it’s killing her.
We’ve fallen into a routine pretty easily; Jules works during the daytime, and I work during the evenings. Our shifts don’t end once we leave our jobs; our roles just change when we walk through the door.
“Push it forward!” I call out, trying to help without getting too involved.
“I am!”
“Then why aren’t you moving?!”
Her optimism is strong enough that we can laugh about situations like these, turning bleak, pivotal moments into reminders that she’s still here and she’s still fighting.
Deciding I’ve given her long enough, I make my way across the path and back to where I was a few minutes ago.
She’s blocking the walkway, aimlessly jabbing her finger at the buttons and wiggling the joystick that sits on her right.
I watch for a moment, hopeful she will notice the bright red light that wasn’t there before.
“Do you want me to–”
“Nope, I’m gonna figure this out, I just need a minute,” she replies, determination written all over her face. I love her.
“Okay, then,” I chuckle, taking a few steps back and raising my palms in surrender.
The chair suddenly jolts forward, and Theresa’s hands fly into the air, first in panic, then in victory.
“Yes! See, I’ve got this. I’m gonna be unstoppable,” she jests.
“Yeah, you will,” I agree, in a state of gooey awe at her courage. We both know her triumph was due to an intense session of button bashing, but I’ll let her have it. I’ll just slip it into conversation later that the red light means the brakes are on.
Once we arrive home, Theresa doesn’t fight me when I go to help her out of the chair and into the living room. She just sinks back into the cushions and watches as I manoeuvre the–heavy as fuck–chair into the hallway.
“Please be careful, Zander,” she winces as I wrestle it into place, pushing it back to rest beside the door.
I do a quick assessment of the surrounding space, making sure it won't be an obstacle for her to work around. When I glance back, the chair looks off, somehow. I turn it slightly to the left, but it still doesn’t look straight.
Letting out an annoyed sigh, I wiggle it again, this time more to the right.
“It looks straight from here, honey. Good job,” Theresa encourages from the sitting room.
But it doesn’t feel right. My skin hums with the need to rectify it, to make it perfect.
I check the alignment of the rear wheels against the base boards, both of which are pressed as far as they can be against the wall.
Leave it, it’s fine. I tell myself over and over, but I know my mind won’t quiet until I solve the mystery.
So rather than stew on it for too long, I head to the kitchen and rummage through the ‘shit drawer’ – another point of contention for me, but one thing at a time.
I find the spirit level quickly and go straight back to the hallway, not wanting to delay my findings and prolong the growing unease.
It’s just as I thought; the walls are completely out of whack.
Unfortunately for me, it’s just an unavoidable effect of time pulling the house into the earth.
I’ll find somewhere else to store it.
“Zander, come and sit down for a bit. You have work tonight, and you should rest before you leave,” her voice is soft and kind, as are her intentions.
She’s trying to distract me, probably worried I’ll reach for the sledgehammer next and really solve the problem.
I know my limits, though. As much as the compulsion bubbles under my skin, it’s not fixable.
So I move the chair, make two drinks, and return to Theresa.
She gratefully takes the mug between her hands, but mine still hover until the cup is safely situated on the table beside her.
“Talk to me, tell me what’s going on.” She isn’t pushing, she’s offering. “I see you spiralling, Zander. And, before you try it, I know you’re sleeping better, Jules told me.” The corner of her mouth lifts in a knowing smirk.
“Oh, did he now?” I’m not annoyed, at least, I don’t think I am.
When it comes to Jules and the last few months, I don’t know what I feel most of the time.
It’s been the most difficult, yet effortless transition.
When we finally reunite in the late evenings, it’s become second nature to curl up in his bed together.
Sometimes we talk about our day, sometimes we just pass out from the exhaustion of it all.
There’s nothing more to the relationship at this point than company and comfort; we’re not there yet.
But that in itself short-circuits my brain, because that’s how things were before.
It wasn’t unusual for me to climb into his bed after a particularly bad nightmare, just as it wasn’t uncommon for him to stroke my hair or hold me close.
It’s the intimacy of our lips touching that forces reality on me.
Don’t get me wrong, the way he kisses me makes me certain that we’re doing the right thing, that our previous behaviours were actually a sign of all the things we were meant to become.
It’s just hard for me to accept the change.
I’ve lived the past three years in a rigidly structured environment.
Never leaving anything to chance and taking back the control my dad had taken from me for so long.
But with Jules, I feel like I’ve just taken a blind leap into the unknown.
For the first time, I’m having to place my trust in someone else.
He doesn’t realise how much control he has; it’s a blessing and a curse at the same time.
I want to explain it to him; to tell him I’m free-falling, and I’m trusting him to catch me, but I can’t.
My first priority has, and always will be, protecting him.
So instead of adding to his already heavy load, I keep my worries to myself.
We’re both learning together; Jules is new to relationships, and I– well, I’m being introduced to a side of myself I never knew existed.
I’d always dated girls, fancied them, and enjoyed the feel of their bodies.
The confusion has even taken me as far as watching male-on-male porn, but I just close the lid of the laptop in frustration when there are no signs of life from below my zipper.
I don’t understand where Jules fits. I don’t get hard watching two guys kiss and touch, yet the moment Jules’ lips land on mine, my cock is trying to burst free and find him.
The only way I can rationalise it is to remove myself from the categories I’ve been trying desperately to fit myself into; gay, bi, straight– they all feel wrong.
So, I’ve created a new one. It’s extremely exclusive and strictly limited to two members only; him and me. It’s cosy and it just feels right.
My mind also recognises the danger, though. Because it’s not just a relationship on the line if things don’t work out– it’s fourteen years of friendship, and it’s the only family either of us has.
Slurping noises pull me back from my thoughts, the same ones Theresa was asking me about.
“It’s not Jules. I mean, we’re good, we’re…
figuring it out,” I say, hoping to ease her mind, because it’s the truth; we are good.
“And yeah, I’m sleeping better now, no nightmares for a while…
But I still don’t feel settled.” She places her cup down and reaches for my hands.
I can feel the tremors and the weakness in her grip, just as I can tell the cup of tea that’s still half full, will be abandoned– even the act of swallowing liquids can be too much some days.
“I know what happened that night, with my dad… I remember things I don’t want to remember, and I’ve seen the police reports from the parts I don’t.
But I can’t get past the feeling I’m missing something.
I thought I would be okay a few months later.
I knew he was gone, and I knew that I was safe, but then the nightmares started, and now, this.
” It’s hard to voice my unease about that night, simply because it makes me sound crazy.
“I’ve done the research, in fact, I’ve done it multiple times, hoping the results will change, but they never do.
The therapist and the internet just excuse what I see in my dreams as exactly that.
I see myself curled on the floor, out cold, hearing voices that I know weren’t actually there.
Research says it’s just my mind trying to create its own version of events.
To bridge the gap in my memory,” I pause, considering how to sound a little less delusional.
It’s not uncommon, and actually happens to people outside of trauma, too.
Our brains don’t like gaps, so we unconsciously pull from other places, other memories, creating something easier to accept.
Sometimes we know these memories to be fictitious; other times, we truly believe in the version of events we craft for ourselves.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore. I would have thought three years would be enough for my brain to accept the gaps, but I still find myself playing out different scenarios that just can’t be true.” I let my body sag as the weight of my stress feels a little lighter.
“Oh, Zander…” She pulls me into a tight hug.
She doesn’t offer advice, she doesn’t try to explain what I’m experiencing, she simply holds me, and it’s exactly what I needed.
I don’t want her worrying about me, though.
Not when she’s facing so much, but I can’t resist taking the comfort she offers.
It was definitely a learning curve for us both; her having to set limits on her affection, and me having to recognise that kindness does exist without conditions.