“Jamie–”
“Honey, we’re home!”Perfect timing.
Echoing down the hall, and saving my day is Manny’s cheerful, yet tired voice and Dylan’s clomping footprints.Check his orthotics,I remind myself.His gait sounds off.
As his voice predicted, Manny looks exhausted. Smiling, but exhausted. “Sorry we’re so late. The traffic was a nightmare. We had a great time at the beach though. Didn’t we Dyl? He even had a little splash in the water.”
Faith and I exchange concerned glances. Dylan having fun in the water is great, but he and stagnant traffic don’t mix, and when his lanky frame appears in the kitchen, there’s no need to ask how he coped. His face is blotchy and red, bottom lip bleeding. As is the tender skin just beneath the cuticles of his right hand, his favorite place to gnaw when heightened. I wince as his raw looking fingers grip Dad’s chair.
It’s been three months since we lost Dad, but Dyl still walks straight to it, pointing between it and the back door, like he does each morning and night. Each time as heartbreaking as the last. Faith’s bottom lip trembles, so even though she is far and above his favorite sibling, I take the question.
“No. Dad’s not outside, Dyl. He’s in heaven, remember?”
We all wait, eyes flitting. The way he handles the daily reminder that Dad’s gone varies. Swollen, dark circles beneath his eyes tell the tale of a tough day, so tonight’s reaction will depend on if he is on the right or wrong side of over-tired.
With a desolate little grunt, he rocks on heels and toes then nods, repeating the noise over and over. He’s stimming, processing, and when he sits at his spot and begins to shred the paper we always leave there for him, we know he’s accepting.
Sighing in relief, Manny turns to me and Faith, “We’ve brought half the sand on the beach home, so he’ll need a good scrub down. I tried to wash his legs and feet, at that faucet near the parking lot, but he wasn’t having it.”
“I don’t blame him,” I huff. “Those taps are disgusting.”
“They are,” Manny laughs, but soon sombers. “I’d love to stay and help you out, but Louisa has her first dance class. I can’t?—”
“Manny, it’s fine.” Faith smiles as warmly as she can, and nods towards the door. “You’re amazing, and you’ve done more than enough. Go see your little girl dance, and make sure you take some photos. I want to see her in that tutu.”
“I will, Faith. See you tomorrow at eight guys.” He waves over his shoulder, before calling out to Dylan, “Bye Dyl.”
And, that’s why I love Manny. We all know there’s a ninety percent chance that Dyl won’t acknowledge his departure, yet healwaysacknowledges Dylan’s presence.
Always. Even when he’s worked almost an hour over his shift end time. So many support staff over the years have been the opposite, taking Dylan’s lack of interaction as a sign of disengagement, when that’s not the case at all. He’s just moved on to the next phase of his routine.
I wish there were a million more Manny’s in the world. I wish I was more like him. Dylan deserves no less.
Some night’s it’s a battle for Dyl to eat anything, especially when he’s tired. But tonight, he’s in rare form, and covered head to toe in red sauce after polishing off two slices of lasagna and three of Manny’s homemade garlic bread.
“He looks the happiest I’ve seen him since …” Faith stops, eyes darting between Dyl and I. We both know what she means. Neither can bear to say it, so as usual, we just move on.
“It’s ‘cause you are happy, aren’t you, bud?” Rocking in his chair, Dylan nods, and hums around the last bite of pasta. “And why wouldn’t you be? An afternoon at the beach, the sun on your skin, water lapping at your feet, sounds infinitely more appealing than the frozen version I was dealing with. And those boys. Faith. What the hell?”
“You’ll get used to them. And don’t forget, you were one of them a decade ago.”
“Hey, I was never that bad. Was I Dyl?” Another cheeky smile and nod comes my way. “Oh, that’s lovely. Gang up on me after I slaved over dinner for you both.”
“Really, James. Reheating is hardly slaving, but since you feel so hard done by, why don’t I take kitchen clean up, and you tackle showering Pasta Face over there.”
I’m not sure I’m getting the deal Faith seems to think I am, but it doesn’t matter. Dylan, a massive fan of all things water, is up and out of his chair in a beat, stripping off as he heads upstairs. Laughing, I give chase, and overtake him just before he reaches the bathroom.
It’s there, as steam fills the room, and bubbles cover Dyl’s full head of curls, that his fatigue kicks in. At six-five and well over two hundred and fifty pounds, I’m no lightweight—and no match for a heightened Dylan. With one nudge, I’m slammed into the glass shower wall, and left wondering again how the hell Dad, who was half my size, managed this alone.
Dyl grips my wrist and tugs. He’s not trying to hurt me, he just wants out. That’s clear. What’s not, is his hair.
“Dyl, mate, we have to wash your hair first. Then you can get out. Just ten more seconds, okay. Come on, count it with me. One … two …” Counting out loud is a technique Manny taught us when we first moved in, and it’s one of the best tools we have. Dylan can count, he just can’t count out loud. Rather he nods and hums along with me.
At five, I angle the shower head, then gently edge him towards me. I’m not trying to get him all the way in, rather just enough for the water to reach his soapy locks. It takes to the count of forty, but the bubbles are out, Dyl’s eyes are soap free, and he’s ready for bed.
So am I.
Dylan isdry and dressed and Faith’s getting him settled. As much as I want to be doing the same with my own exhausted frame, I’m back in the car, heading to my old apartment to get more of my belongings. An itemized list of said belongings is not what’s on my brain, though.
