Chapter 16 #3
“Cal?”
The name warmed me every time.
“Yes?”
“Do you resent me?”
“No.”
“Not even a little.”
“No.”
“You’re allowed to.”
“I know.”
His eye closed.
“I resent the lost jobs. The insurers. The fact you hurt. I resent that a fifteen-minute drive exhausts you.”
His hand found mine.
“I do not resent you.”
He nodded.
The elevator arrived.
He slept in the car before we left the hospital parking area.
I considered taking the coastal road, then chose the shortest route home.
His head rested against the seat. His left arm, free of the rigid brace, lay supported in the new sling. Without the molded shell, he looked more like himself.
More vulnerable too.
At the yard, Owen came outside when I parked.
He opened Noah’s door gently.
“Successful escape?”
Noah woke slowly.
His eye found me first.
Then Owen.
“Brace gone.”
“I see that.”
Owen touched his shoulder lightly.
“You look wrecked.”
“Thank you.”
“Professional assessment.”
I unloaded the chair.
Noah tried to stand for the transfer and his knees nearly folded.
I caught him beneath the arms.
“No.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are asleep with your eye open.”
“Efficient.”
His words had blurred.
I lowered him into the chair.
The stair lift waited at the rear entrance, but Noah stared at it without moving.
“Too much?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Use the downstairs room.”
“No.”
“You can rest there.”
“Want upstairs.”
“You do not have to prove anything.”
“Not proving.”
His eye closed.
“Bed.”
The word came quietly.
I looked at the narrow stairs, the mechanical chair, the exhaustion in his face.
“I’m going to carry you.”
Noah’s eye opened.
“You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I won’t.”
“You said your back—”
“My back will survive.”
Owen locked the powered chair.
I crouched in front of Noah.
“Arms around my neck. Keep the left supported.”
He obeyed without argument, which told me how tired he was.
I slid one arm beneath his thighs and the other around his back.
He was lighter than before the accident.
The fact angered me every time.
I lifted him.
Noah’s head settled against my shoulder.
His breath warmed my neck.
Owen carried the bags and went ahead to open doors.
The stairs were awkward but manageable. I took them slowly, keeping Noah’s injured hip away from the rail.
Halfway up, he murmured, “Cal.”
“Yes?”
“Like this.”
“What?”
“You carrying me.”
“Is it painful?”
“No.”
His grip tightened faintly.
“Feels like I know it.”
My heart stumbled.
“Maybe I carried you before.”
“Did you?”
“Once from a boat after you dislocated your shoulder.”
“Anything else?”
“A few times when you were drunk.”
“I don’t drink much.”
“You lost a competition with Caleb.”
“That sounds unlikely.”
“It was memorable.”
He made a small sound that might have been laughter.
At the top, I carried him through the apartment rather than set him in the chair.
Marlowe followed, agitated and curious.
Noah’s face turned into my chest.
“Could get used to this.”
“You are becoming spoiled.”
“Good.”
I took him to the couch.
He objected weakly.
“Bed.”
“You need medication and water first.”
“Bed after.”
“Yes.”
I settled him against the cushions.
His eye remained closed.
I brought water and the midday tablets.
He swallowed them slowly.
Then his hand caught my wrist.
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“The money.”
“You did not cause it.”
“I should have asked.”
“Your brain had other priorities.”
“No room.”
“I know.”
His words were becoming harder to understand.
“We’ll make room together.”
He gave a tired nod.
I covered him with a blanket.
“Sleep here. I’ll move you when you wake.”
“Stay?”
“I need five minutes downstairs.”
His fingers tightened.
I remembered the morning.
“I’m going to the office,” I said. “Owen is in the north bay. Marlowe is beside you. I will come back before the next medication alarm.”
Noah opened his eye enough to focus on me.
“You’ll whistle?”
“Yes.”
He released my wrist.
I kissed his forehead.
At the stairwell, I gave the signal.
Two short notes.
One long.
Noah’s mouth curved without his eye opening.
His answer was a breath too soft to form a whistle.
“I’m here.”
I went downstairs.
Caleb waited in my office beside a stack of unpaid invoices and a box of relay assemblies from Harbor Supply.
“You got them.”
“Ben agreed to thirty days.”
“On whose account?”
“The yard’s.”
I looked at him.
Caleb lifted both hands.
“No personal guarantee.”
Relief swept through me.
“How is Noah?”
“Asleep.”
“Appointments?”
“Brace off. New therapy plan. Dr. Whitcomb wants a financial review in two days.”
“With him?”
“Yes.”
Caleb sat.
“You told him.”
“Enough.”
“How did he take it?”
“Like a man trying to carry a storm in one hand.”
I opened the laptop.
The red numbers remained.
Nothing had changed.
Yet something felt different.
Noah knew there was a problem.
He had not broken.
I no longer carried every fact alone.
Caleb slid a document across the desk.
“Insurance called while you were gone. They approved the temporary wage reimbursement.”
I stared at the page.
“How much?”
“Eight weeks, retroactive.”
The amount covered payroll.
Not the supplier debt.
Not the mortgage beyond next month.
But it moved the line between difficult and disaster.
I sat back.
For the first time in days, my lungs filled completely.
Caleb smiled.
“Manageable?”
I looked toward the ceiling.
Directly above us, Noah slept in the apartment we had made together, his journal beside him, his arm free of its brace, his mind slowly finding ways through the missing years.
“Yes,” I said.
This time, it was true.