Chương 10
“What do you want me to do with them?”
“Burn them?”
She looked toward the smoke detector.
“No.”
“Practical.”
“I can recycle.”
“That feels environmentally mature.”
“You are not environmentally mature.”
“Cruel.”
Rosa took the box.
Adrian stopped her.
“Wait.”
He removed one invitation.
Rosa raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t know.”
She waited.
He looked at the names again.
Then he tore it in half.
The sound was smaller than he expected.
He handed both pieces to her.
“Recycle.”
Rosa nodded.
No ceremony.
No speech.
She put the pieces back into the box and asked whether he wanted lentil soup for dinner.
He did.
That night Vanessa texted.
I found your mother’s earrings.
He read the message twice.
Vanessa had borrowed them for a gala before the accident and never returned them.
His mother had died six years earlier.
The earrings were not particularly valuable.
They were small gold knots she had worn to work almost every day.
Adrian typed:
Can you send them to Rosa?
Vanessa replied:
Of course.
Then:
I’m sorry. I forgot I had them.
He believed her.
That made the message hurt more.
He wrote:
Thank you.
Three days later the earrings arrived wrapped in tissue inside a jewelry box Vanessa had owned since college.
Rosa brought them to Adrian.
He opened the box.
The smell of Vanessa’s perfume remained faintly in the velvet.
Memory arrived without permission.
Vanessa barefoot in his kitchen at two in the morning making grilled cheese after their third date.
Vanessa crying at his mother’s grave though the two women had never met.
Vanessa asleep beside his hospital bed with her cheek pressed against a folded sweatshirt.
Vanessa’s hands on the wheelchair handles.
He closed the box.
For ten minutes he sat without doing anything.
Then he called her.
She answered immediately.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
A pause.
“I got the earrings.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you.”
“You already said that.”
“I know.”
They were quiet.
Adrian heard traffic behind her.
“Where are you?”
“Walking home.”
“In New York?”
“Yes.”
He pictured her without intending to.
“Are you okay?”
Vanessa laughed softly.
“That’s strange.”
“What?”
“You asking.”
“I can stop.”
“No.”
She waited.
“I’m not okay.”
He closed his eyes.
“Neither am I.”
“Good.”
He opened his eyes.
“That sounded terrible.”
“I meant—I don’t know. I’m glad I’m not the only one who didn’t magically recover because we decided it was over.”
Adrian ran his thumb along the edge of the jewelry box.
“I’m not angry every minute anymore.”
“That must be nice.”
“Only fifty-eight minutes per hour.”
“There you are.”
He smiled despite himself.
Vanessa said, “I started seeing someone.”
His stomach dropped.
Then she added, “A therapist.”
He exhaled.
She heard it.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You thought I meant dating.”
“No.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I did not.”
“Adrian.”
“Fine.”
For the first time since the yacht, they both laughed.
It lasted only a few seconds.
When it ended, sadness filled the space where it had been.
Vanessa said, “I told her what I did.”
“The therapist?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“That pushing someone in a wheelchair is physical aggression.”
Adrian looked down.
“Accurate.”
“I hated her.”
“Healthy therapeutic alliance.”
Vanessa laughed once.
“She also asked why I thought caregiving and love were the same thing.”
He said nothing.
“I didn’t have a good answer.”
“You don’t have to give me one.”
“I know.”
A horn sounded in the background.
Vanessa’s voice became distant for a second as she crossed a street.
Then she said, “I did love you.”
Adrian’s throat tightened.
“I know.”
“I need you to know that.”
“I do.”
“I loved you when you were in the hospital.”
“I know.”
“I loved you in the chair.”
He closed his eyes.
“Sometimes.”
She went quiet.
He regretted it immediately.
Then Vanessa said, “Yeah.”
No defense.
That hurt too.
They stayed on the phone another minute.
When they hung up, Adrian placed his mother’s earrings in the drawer beside his bed.
He did not call Maya.
He wanted to.
That was why he didn’t.
Two months after the storm, Adrian walked forty-three yards with a cane.
He hated every foot.
Erin walked backward in front of him in the rehabilitation gym, hands ready without touching.
“Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“You are threatening the oxygen.”
“My relationship with oxygen is private.”
“Twenty more feet.”
“You said fifteen.”
“I lied.”
“You’re unethical.”
“Walk.”
Sweat dampened Adrian’s shirt between his shoulder blades.
His right foot dragged slightly.
He corrected.
Three steps.
Four.
His hip tightened.
He stopped.
Erin watched him.
“Pain?”
“Yes.”
“Number.”
“Six.”
“Real number.”
“Seven.”
“Sit.”
“I can finish.”
“Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“Adrian.”
He hated the tone.
He took another step.
His knee buckled.
Erin caught his elbow.
He slammed the cane down and steadied himself.
For a second the entire room blurred with anger.
Not fear.
Anger.
He jerked away from her.
“I had it.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Sit down.”
“Stop telling me to sit.”
The words came out louder than he intended.
Two other patients looked over.
Erin’s face changed.
Not offended.
Alert.
Adrian saw their faces.
He wanted to disappear.
He lowered himself into the waiting chair.
Erin crouched beside him.
“I know.”
“Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything.”
“Good.”
His breathing came hard.
A man across the gym returned to his exercise band.
Someone’s phone rang.
Life continued.
Adrian stared at the floor.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“Stop knowing.”
“Okay.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
After a minute Erin sat on the floor beside the chair.
She did not speak.
That helped.
Eventually Adrian said, “I thought once I could walk, I’d stop being afraid of not walking.”
Erin looked ahead.
“Bodies are rude that way.”
He laughed weakly.
“Is that your medical opinion?”
“Yes.”
He reached for the cane.
She stopped him.
“Not yet.”
His jaw tightened.
Then he let go.
That was harder.
May you like
Maya returned from a ten-day charter the following evening.
She found Adrian’s message sent six hours earlier.
