9. Present #2
He swallows, nodding. “Yeah,” he says, in a voice low enough that Brett would have to strain to hear.
“I woke up, hmm. When was it? I guess almost three weeks ago. Man, I can’t believe it’s already been that long,” he muses.
“Anyway, I woke up and I didn’t feel normal.
I was dizzy and I couldn’t walk straight.
My vision was all weird and blurry, and I told Leyla something wasn’t right.
” He drops his decibel to a whisper. “Then, Brett looked at me and screamed. Apparently, my eyes were each facing out, like away from each other. It must have looked terrifying to her.”
“Oh my God. That must have been awful.”
Matt nods.
“I mean for you,” I clarify.
“Oh.” He looks down at his soup, hard. “Yeah.” Inhaling, he says, “I’m fine,” steeling himself to continue.
“So, Leyla called 9-1-1. I waited outside for them because I didn’t want to scare Brett any worse.
The cops got to me before an ambulance did.
And, you want to know the kicker? They kept asking me what I was on. ”
“On?”
“Yeah. Like, they assumed I was high off my ass or something. I guess because of my age? Like, they didn’t think it could be something real. I told them I don’t take drugs, and at first, they didn’t believe me.”
“Were your eyes still—”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure that the stroke was over by the time they all got to the house. But I still wanted to go to the hospital and get checked out.”
“I don’t understand. So, you didn’t lose, like, movement in half of your body or something?”
Matt shakes his head. “No. I was in the hospital for four days. First day was mostly just in the ER doing testing and waiting for a room. They thought it was something called a TIA—I forget what it stands for, but it’s even smaller than a mini-stroke.
It passes quickly, and it doesn’t do any permanent damage. ”
“Well, that sounds like the best case scenario, I guess, right?”
“It would have been, but a few—maybe two—days later, they finally gave me the MRI. So, a TIA stroke is really fast and leaves nothing on the brain—no scarring, nothing. But a regular stroke leaves a dark spot on your brain stem. When they took the MRI, they took pictures of my brain stem.”
“Was there a dark spot?”
“No,” Matt says. “There were two.”
“Two?”
“Yeah. Which means it probably wasn’t my first stroke.”
“Holy shit, Matt. How could you—”
“Maybe in my sleep? I might have had a smaller one and not known it.”
“Did they say what caused it?” I ask.
“Well, it’s a clot, right? A clot that gets lodged in your brain and stops the blood flow.”
“Isn’t that associated with high cholesterol or something? Do you have artery problems or anything like that?”
He shakes his head. “No. They tested all that. Said I have no plaque buildup in my arteries. They think it was from smoking.”
“Oh,” I say. “Shit.”
“So, they made me quit. Like right there on the spot. Put me on the patch, and that was it.”
“I didn’t know you still smoked.”
“Yeah. I take it you don’t?”
I shake my head. “Not anymore, no. I quit once I started working with kids.”
“Well, better for you. I guess I’m not much of a role model.
” He glances at Brett on the couch. “And I have no idea what they put in cigarettes these days, but they’re definitely more toxic than they were when we were younger.
Like, there were moments when even I could smell how nasty I was.
My hands, my clothes, the stench would just stick to me.
Also, there were times that my head would just pound. ”
“How much were you smoking?”
“Too much, obviously.”
“A pack a day?”
“More,” he admits.
“Wow.”
“So now, like all of a sudden, I feel like my skin’s a different color. Less yellow. Healthier, maybe. And I can taste things in a way that I haven’t been able to in years.”
“Then how come you’re not eating more?”
“I don’t know,” Matt says. “I think…” His voice trails off. He stares at the kitchen window.
“Go on,” I encourage him.
“My head’s just not right.” He says it into his soup.
“Are you depressed?”
He nods. “And angry. And grateful to be alive. But mostly just…” He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“You’re entitled, you know. To whatever you’re feeling.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“I disagree. Look who you’re talking to.”
“I know,” he agrees. “I’m sorry.”
“Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer if you don’t feel comfortable.”
“Sure.”
“Is it because of Leyla being gone?”
Matt shakes his head. “A little, I guess. It’s such a mind fuck. All this time, I stuck around, trying to do the right thing. And then she leaves within a few days of me being sick? Like, imagine if I left her after she told me she was pregnant? How messed up would that be?”
The weight of his words feels like a cinder block strapped around a stranded swimmer in the middle of the ocean. “When is she coming back from California?”
“Brett told you, huh?”
Panic collides with truth as blood pumps as smooth as water through my veins. I nod, masking the unspoken lie with a smile.
He draws in a breath and holds it. His mouth turns into a grimace, as if he just ate something rancid.
He tents his fingers and touches them to his lips.
“Well, she got the call from her producer on my third day in the hospital. A show that she filmed a pilot for got picked up by Netflix. They asked her to come out there to film a whole season.”
“Talk about bad timing.”
“She said it was fate. Her big break. She said she ‘couldn’t not go.’” This information he delivers in air quotes. “And, to answer your question, I don’t know how long it takes to film a whole season of a Netflix show, but the ticket she bought was one-way.”
I gulp. “She left you in the hospital to go to California?”
“Not exactly. I was discharged on the fourth day. Leyla left the day after that. But, like I said on the phone earlier, I guess she felt guilty.”
“How come?”
“Because she put up the GoFundMe first.”
“Oh.”
“Which reminds me,” he continues. He pulls the folded check out of his back pocket and hands it to me. “Please take this back.”
“What if you need it?”
“Then I’ll ask for help.”
“No you won’t. You’re one of the most stubborn people I know.”
“Not anymore I’m not. Consider the fact that I needed help yesterday, and what did I do? I called you. Right?”
“I guess.”
“Please don’t emasculate me any further. Take the money.” He holds the check out and places it in my unwilling hand. The feeling of his skin on mine ignites a spark in my chest cavity, familiar but brand-new.
“Fine. I’ll hold the check, but I won’t cash it. That way it’s ready to go if you change your mind.”
“Deal,” he agrees.
Without another argument, I shove the check into my pocket.
“You know, for all that Leyla did wrong, I think she may have been right about one thing,” Matt says.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“The part about it being fate,” he replies, looking up. “Because you’re here.”