9. Present
Chapter nine
Present
“Hello?”
“Did I wake you?”
“No. I’m up,” I lie, stretching.
“Well, you sound asleep, so I’m sorry if I woke you. I just wanted to say thank you for last night.”
“No worries. My pleasure.”
“I got your note.” He pauses. “I just couldn’t stay awake.
I’ve been having a tough time lately. I’m not really sure how to describe it.
Everything just feels like a lot. Anyway, I called you, and once I knew you were on your way, I went to lie down and must have fallen asleep. I’m sorry. That wasn’t cool.”
“How much did you drink?” I ask. “No judgment. Just wondering.”
“A few beers. I wasn’t wasted or anything, if that’s what you’re asking. Just tired,” he replies.
“Mm,” I say in acknowledgement.
“My head’s not right,” he admits.
“Yeah. I’m not trying to press my luck here, but after the earful you gave me the last time we talked, I honestly thought I might never hear from you again.”
“It’s all just been a lot,” he says. “I probably shouldn’t have come at you like that, but you caught me off guard, showing up at my house after seven years of silence.”
A twist of the knife. “I know. And I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to help. I want to help.”
Matt inhales deeply. “I need to be able to trust you, Taylor.”
“You can,” I say.
“It’s not just about me anymore,” he goes on. “I’ve got Brett to worry about, too, and—”
“I know. She’s beautiful, Matt.”
“She’s all I’ve got.”
“That’s not true,” I counter.
“It is. And I was feeling it last night, especially with my parents gone. I shouldn’t have called you. I’m sorry I called you.”
“I’m not. I’m glad you called.” I clear my throat.
“Can I ask you a favor?”
“Sure. Anything.”
“Take the check back. I don’t want it. What you did last night was way more valuable to me than any amount of money.”
“But if you need it—” I begin.
“I don’t. My parents have plenty of money.”
“Then why is there a GoFundMe for you? It says you need money for medical bills and food and expenses while you’re out of work.”
He pauses. “Because sometimes, people do crazy things to assuage their own guilt.”
“Oh.” Drop it. Don’t push.
“Anyway, we can argue about the money another time. I was calling to apologize to you.”
“No need, Matt.”
“As I said, I’m not doing great. It doesn’t make what I did—calling you out of nowhere—okay, but I just thought I would explain myself.”
I close my eyes, noticing how the sound of his voice is closer to the Matt I always knew. “When you say you’re not doing great, do you mean physically? Or, like, emotionally?”
“Probably both," he laughs sarcastically. “But I mean emotionally. It’s just been a lot of change all at once. Like, one minute I’m fine, and the next minute I’m being carted off to the hospital—and then I come home to discover Leyla’s leaving me alone with Brett to take care of.
Only, I can’t drive, so I’m fairly useless. ”
“You can’t drive?”
“Not for another week or so, no.”
“How come?”
“They’re monitoring me. The doctors. Apparently, at my age, if you have a stroke—even if it’s a small one—you’re at a very high risk of having another one within the first few weeks. So until I finish all my upcoming appointments, I’m not cleared to drive.”
Another stroke? “Oh.” Did Leyla know this when she decided to leave?
“I Uber, though. And I made sure the appointments are all before Brett gets off the school bus.”
“Right.” I push a sudden onslaught of intrusive thoughts out of my head. “She’s lovely, by the way.”
“Thank you. I hope she was good for you. I honestly didn’t mean to put you in that situation. I think my body just succumbed to my exhaustion once I knew you were coming over. Like, my adrenaline must have plummeted because I knew help was on the way.”
I roll over onto my side. “It’s no problem, really.”
“Also, it’s kind of embarrassing. The house and everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s small. And not as clean as we would typically have it if we knew we had company coming.”
It strikes me, the idea of being thought of as “company.” I’m processing that when he continues.
“Brett said she enjoyed spending time with you.”
“Really? That’s sweet.”
“She actually asked me if you would be coming back to visit her again.”
“Seriously?” I smile.
“Yeah. So,” he pauses, clearing his throat, “we wanted to invite you over again. But this time, I promise to stay awake. I’d like to make it up to you.”
My insides twist up like a balloon animal. “You don’t owe me anything. But I’d be happy to spend more time with her. When would be good for you?”
“Anytime, really. I don’t really have much of a social calendar right now.”
“Tonight?” Idiot! Too soon. What is wrong with you?
“Sure. Tonight would be great.”
“I get out of work at 7:30, but sometimes I don’t actually leave until a little after that. I should be able to get to your house by no later than 8:30. Is that too late?”
“That’s fine. Brett should be asleep by then, but she never is. I’m not very good with bedtimes, unfortunately.”
“What can I bring?”
“Nothing. I’ll order food. Chinese okay? Shrimp and broccoli?”
My favorite. “Perfect. I’m surprised you remember.”
He’s quiet for a second. “I remember, Taylor.” Matt swallows. “I remember everything.”
The comment fills my chest and head with sudden pressure. “See you later, then. Thanks again,” I manage to say. I love you. The words almost fall from my lips, like lyrics to a song I long ago memorized but only recently rediscovered.
“Bye,” Matt replies, before my mouth gets the better of me.
The day goes on in a fog as I absent-mindedly set about my morning routine. By the time I get to work, my stomach is fully in knots. I speak to Jessica in the car, but our chat is unsuccessful in calming my nerves.
“What exactly do you want out of this?” Jessica asks. It’s not the first time she’s pressed me on this issue. Still, the question echoes in my mind throughout my workday. What do I want? Other than a time machine?
On the way to Matt’s house that night I swing by CVS to pick up an animal-themed coloring book and a box of crayons for Brett.
I knock on the peeling blue door for the third time in a week, only this time, I’m greeted by a distant, “Come in!” I open the door to find Brett curled up on the couch with Velveteen watching the Disney channel on television. She straightens up and smiles.
“Hi, Brett,” I say.
In the kitchen, Matt stands at the sink, washing dishes. He waves a soapy hand. “Hey.”
I smile at him, take off my coat and hang it up on a hook by the front door next to Brett’s silver and purple fluffy winter jacket and Matt’s black fleece. I approach the sofa. “I brought you something.”
Behind the pink-rimmed glasses, Brett’s face lights up. “Really?”
“Just a little something.” I hand Brett the brown paper bag from CVS as Matt cranes his neck away from the kitchen sink, eavesdropping.
Brett opens the bag and pulls out the gift. She smiles when she sees the picture of the kitten and bunny on the cover. “Thank you,” she replies softly.
I wink at her and take in the space. The lights are all on, including a lamp in the corner of the living room that casts a reddish-orange glow.
The house smells like a mixture of pumpkin spice and Chinese food, all coming from the kitchen.
A large jar candle is lit on the stove, and a bag of takeout sits on the freshly wiped counter.
The small kitchen table is covered with a green and white checkered tablecloth and two place settings.
“Thanks for coming,” Matt says, drying his hands on a dishtowel.
He’s wearing a navy-blue hoodie sweatshirt, jeans, and white socks and his brown hair is buzzed short, which is different than I’m used to.
His skin is a bit pinker this time, maybe from the lighting.
Dark circles hang under his eyes, but his smile is strangely the same as ever, bringing life to a sad yet otherwise familiar face.
“Of course. Thanks for dinner. I’m starving, actually.”
“Well, Brett just ate. I told her you’d be here at 8:30 but she couldn’t wait that long.” That explains why the table is set for two. “I’ll join you, though.”
I look at Brett, who has opened her new box of crayons and is busily using the brown to color in the floppy ear of a puppy in the book. She’s got Velveteen propped up against a pillow and is leaning forward toward the solid surface of the coffee table, still engaged in her Disney show.
“Half an hour,” Matt warns Brett. “Then it’s bedtime for you, Miss.”
Brett looks up at him and adjusts her glasses, a faint smile playing at her lips. “Okay, Daddy.”
Matt brings the Chinese food over to the table and unpacks the bag. I open a white container and shovel a small mountain of shrimp and broccoli onto one of the ceramic dishes.
“Want some?” He gestures toward the soup.
“No, thanks. I’m set with all this,” I reply, waving a pair of chopsticks over my plate.
He breathes in the steam from a still-hot container of wonton soup.
I mash a scoop of rice into the brown sauce from my shrimp and broccoli.
I dig in, giving up the chopsticks in favor of a traditional fork within a few bites.
Once my initial hunger has been quelled, I notice Matt’s only sipping broth. Slowly.
“You okay?” I ask, gulping.
“Yeah. Sorry. I’m not particularly interested in food.”
The answer strikes me. “Does it make you feel sick?”
Matt shakes his head. “No, it’s nothing like that. I’m just not hungry.” He shrugs. “It’s weird. I know.”
I set my fork down, suddenly feeling guilty for wolfing down food in front of him. It’s a reminder of why I’m even here in the first place. Matt Thompson had a stroke.
I wonder how often he comes up against this revelation in his own daily life.
“So,” I begin.
He slurps at a spoonful of soup. “Mm?”
“Am I allowed to ask what happened?”