I nod but don’t say anything as the elevator comes to a stop at our floor. It’s more awkward maneuvering to get me down the hall and into the condo, which has been totally reorganized.
The dining room table, which we never really use apart from when we have the guys over and serve food buffet style, has been removed. The couch and chairs have been shifted around to make a straight path from the front door to the hospital-style bed in the center of the living room. There’s one of those wheelie hospital tables right beside it, and it’s positioned so I have a great view of the giant flat-screen TV.
“We couldn’t get the bed down the hall unless I rented the smaller one, and I didn’t think you’d want to be crammed into something tiny, so I figured this was a better option. Once you have a bit more mobility, we can work on getting you into your bedroom, but for now, the doctors suggested this would be best.”
“When did you have time to do this?” Almost every piece of furniture has been moved.
“It took me and the guys an afternoon. It wasn’t that hard with three sets of hands, but Jerome likes to rearrange things seventy times to see what works best.”
“You must have loved that.”
“Majority rules came into play a lot.” He squeezes my shoulder. “You wanna lie down or stay in your chair?”
“Um, I think I need to use the bathroom.”
“Okay, give me a minute to make sure everything is ready, and I’ll get you sorted out.” He rushes down the hall. It’s good we have separate bathrooms.
While I wait, I take in the reorganized space.
This hospital-style bed looks a lot comfier than the one I was just sleeping in, but it also reminds me that I’m far from okay. My favorite quilt decorates the bed. The one my mom had made when I was a teenager. I always refused to get rid of my old sports jerseys and shirts even after I’d long outgrown them. So for my sixteenth birthday, she had them made into a quilt. It’s the last birthday gift I ever got from her and it goes with me almost everywhere.
Despite the fact that I’m closing in on thirty, I still keep it on my bed, and I often bring it out to the living room to cuddle under when we’re watching TV. My favorite pillows are piled up on top of it, and a few of the magazines and books from my nightstand are on the table beside it.
I’m not much of a crier, but I find myself on the verge of tears for what feels like the hundredth time since I woke with half my body wrapped in fiberglass casts, unable to manage even the simplest, everyday tasks. I take a few deep, steadying breaths, reminding myself to stay strong and that I’ll get through this like I’ve gotten through everything else, one challenge at a time.
Declan returns and wheels me down the hall, already having learned exactly how to maneuver to get me into the bathroom. There’s one of those things over top of the toilet with handrails on it—something I associate with the frail and elderly. At the hospital I had a catheter for the first few days, but as soon as I could manage getting out of bed and getting to the bathroom—with the help of a nurse and often my sisters—the doctor removed it.
I look at the toilet and then at Declan. He claps once. “You ready to do this?”
“As ready as I’m going to be, I guess.” He comes around the side with my bad leg, and I hook my good arm around his neck. Once my grip is solid, he slides both of his arms around my back and helps hoist me out of the wheelchair. It’s awkward at best. And my ribs are ridiculously sore.
Living together means we’re close, but we’ve never been particularly touchy, apart from when we were trying to get the ball from each other during soccer practice.
This is different, though. I’m not used to needing help with banal things like going to the bathroom. My chest comes flush with his, hard edges and angles warm against mine. It’s not clinical like it was with the nurses. Maybe because he’s my friend and there’s more body-to-body contact?
It takes some maneuvering, but we finally mange to get me over to the toilet. I drop down with a groan, my body stiff and sore, partly from the accident, partly because I’ve been lying in the same position for hours on end, and other than the limited physical therapy, there’s been minimal movement, so everything is that much more taxing.
I’m seated, with my pants still pulled up. Declan steps back, eyes bouncing around before he finally blows out a breath. “Uh, do you need help with the…” He motions to my lower half.