Page 60 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Over the next few days, I become rather inventive around the apartment.

I loop a hair tie around the head of a water bottle so it can be carried more easily; I fasten a sponge to a pair of tongs for the shower; I clip a lanyard to my phone so it hangs around my neck and frees up my hands; I position the hat rack beside the bed so I can stand more easily.

I start using a backpack for what might be the first time since school, and I buy one of those grabber toys so I can reach things on the floor like laundry and towels.

Four times a day, I exit the apartment, ride the elevator down to the ground floor, circle around the block, and then return.

Slowly, day by day, I am regaining my independence.

Dave has been keeping his distance. Cooking, cleaning, helping me when I need it (and only when I ask for it), but largely leaving me alone.

I don’t even know where he is right now.

He was gone when I woke, bleary-eyed as I tried to remember what day it was.

Saturday? Monday? No, it’s Friday. Definitely Friday.

Good lord, has Dave been working at all since I had my accident? I’ve been so wrapped up in myself, and then so furious with him, I never thought to ask.

During a moment of unearned confidence, I decide I’m going to cook some breakfast – an omelette.

I’ve grabbed a bulky, fluffed pillow from Dave’s hideous lounge and slipped it underneath me as a booster. I’m grabbing plates and a spatula and a small frying pan from the lower cupboards. A small task but I feel triumphant.

Then I take one look at the stove and realise that even with a booster pillow – even with a second one – I can’t see the omelette cooking unless I stand and balance on one leg.

And sure, I can do that, but only for so long.

I’ve barely used my muscles in weeks. I’ve got a minute, if that, before I have to sit back down.

And so it’s a cycle of standing, checking and flipping the omelette, then lowering myself back down. And all the movement pains my limbs, and I’m sweating and I’m aching and a large part of me wants to cry because I feel I may have been too eager here. Maybe I’m not ready after all.

But I’m just so sick of relying on people.

Every time someone offers to help me with something, I think of Naya.

It’s inevitable, and shame bleeds through my chest. I still have not told my family, and there’s only so long I can hold off.

She’s going to be here soon and there’ll be no hiding it then—

I flop back down onto the chair. My leg is quivering. The omelette isn’t cooked through yet but I’m considering eating it anyway. How much longer is this going to take?

Up again. Flip.

Back down.

Up again. Flip.

Back down.

I fear I’m going to need a day-long nap after this.

One meal and I’m done for. Up, down, up, down, up, down.

Then, a minute or so later, I’m satisfied.

I think the omelette is done. It certainly looks cooked.

And if it’s not, I’ll inhale it anyway, because I’m starving and I’m tired and I’m ready to go back to bed.

But as I grab the pan handle and swivel my chair, I misjudge my grip and the whole thing slips out of my hand. It’s like slow motion: I watch the pan drop to the floor, clatter and bounce, and my omelette splatters all over the tiles.

My resolve disintegrates along with it. ‘Motherf—’

‘ Charlie .’

I turn, and realise Dave is standing at the threshold of the apartment, a plastic chair in his left hand and his wallet and keys in the other. His face looks stricken.

‘Jesus, Charlie, what are you doing?’ He drops his things and darts forward to the kitchen. Turns off the stove, picks up the pan and throws it into the sink, then grabs a cloth and swipes up all the scattered omelette from the floor. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I just wanted to cook myself breakfast.’ I move away. ‘This is so frustrating. ’

‘You still have three more weeks.’

‘Yes, Dave, I know that. Thank you.’

He lets out an exhausted sigh, tosses the cloth in the bin. Then, hands on hips, looks me in the eye. ‘I thought we agreed. You call Genevieve if you need something – she’s around the corner.’

‘I want to do things myself.’

‘Well then, maybe start with some toast next time. Not an omelette.’ He’s laughing.

‘I was doing so well.’

‘You burnt the shit out of it,’ he says, amused. Picks up the bin from the counter and angles it so I can see the remnants of the omelette inside – charred.

‘Damn it.’ I sigh.

Sympathy crosses his face. Lines etched across his forehead, sagging shoulders, his mouth a thin line. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘For my burnt omelette?’

‘For everything.’ He leans against the counter. Then, finding the words, he says, ‘I pestered you for that engagement ring because I was angry at you for leaving.’

‘You didn’t even notice I lost it.’

He is morose. ‘In my mind, we were fine. Before you found out about everything, we were fine. But we weren’t doing well, were we?’

‘No, Dave, we weren’t.’

He nods, straightening. Grabbing the frying pan and placing it in the dishwasher.

‘Where were you? I woke up and you were gone.’

‘Oh. I just …’ He gestures to the front door, where he’d dumped the plastic chair. ‘Bought you a new one for the shower. Noticed the old one was uneven in the legs.’

‘Right.’ I’m a real arse.

‘But, you know, I’ll toss it if you don’t want the help.

If that’s something you’d prefer to buy yourself.

’ He smiles, genuine, and I am reminded of his best trait – selflessness.

And so maybe it isn’t guilt that has him helping me.

Maybe he’s helping me because he wants to.

Because he knows it’s the right thing to do.