Mickey calls on a Monday night and his voice is different. Lighter. Like something loosened in his chest.
“The doctor gave me a discharge date,” he says. “Friday. Tex is picking me up.”
“I’ll be there Wednesday,” I say.
“Benji, you don’t have to—”
“No arguments or trying to talk me out of it. I’ll be there Wednesday.”
The drive from Miami to Jacksonville takes five hours, and I make it in four and a half because I left early, the roads were empty and my foot was heavier than it should have been.
Six weeks since I left him there. Six weeks of phone calls and missed visits and excuses that got thinner every week. I’m not missing this one.
I stop once for gas and coffee, again at a grocery store for two Italian subs with everything on them and two sweet teas. Frankie rides shotgun in the passenger seat — a small Echeveria in a blue-gray ceramic pot barely bigger than a coffee mug. Bright coral-tipped leaves fanning out in a tight rosette. Bold for his size. I found him at a nursery in Miami three weeks ago and have been waiting for the right moment to bring him to George.
I arrive at the rehab facility and park. Grabbing the bags in one hand and Frankie in the other, I walk through the frontdoors with my heart hammering. His door is open. I knock on the frame and step in.
He’s in the wheelchair by the window. The sun is hitting the side of his face and he turns his head when he hears me and the look on his face makes me forget how to walk.
The cop mask drops. Just for a second, just a flash, and underneath it is pure, naked relief. Like he’s been holding his breath and the exhale is my name.
“You’re early,” he says.
“I left at four,” I say from the doorway. I’m holding Frankie in one hand and the grocery bag in the other. I drove three hundred and fifty miles to see him and I’d do it again tomorrow.
“What is that?” He nods at Frankie.
“This is Frankie.” I walk in and set the bag on the tray table. I hold up Frankie in his blue-gray pot like I’m presenting a newborn. “Frankie is George’s companion. George has been in this room alone for too long and I decided he needs a friend. He’s a succulent. He’s small but he’s loud. Look at those colors. He’s an accent plant. Every big green statement plant needs one — something bright next to it that makes the whole picture work.”
I set Frankie on the nightstand next to the cream. The little blue-gray pot looks perfect there, the coral-tipped rosette catching the window light.
“You brought my plant a plant,” Mickey says.
“I brought your plant his other half. There’s a difference. George is big and green and serious. Frankie is small andflashy and shows up uninvited. It’s a symbiotic relationship. Like us, if you think about it.”
“Which one of us is the succulent?”
“I’m obviously Frankie. Small and loud. You’re George. Big, quiet, everyone on the floor loves you.”
He shakes his head like I’m being ridiculous but he’s smiling.
“And I brought subs,” I say, patting the bag. “Italian with everything. I was in a hurry and didn’t have time to find a real restaurant because I left four hours early because I have no self-control and no patience. I wanted to see you so badly that I was on the highway before the sun came up.”
His eyes change. The smile is still there but something shifts behind it, a heat that wasn’t in the room thirty seconds ago. He’s looking at me the way he looked at me when I stepped out of the shower. Except now there’s no screen between us.
“The subs can wait a little longer,” he says.
His hand reaches out and catches mine. The calluses are thicker, the fingers surer. He wraps his hand around my wrist and pulls, and I take a step toward his chair.
“Mickey—”
“Follow me.”
He doesn’t let go of my wrist. He wheels with his free hand, one strong push on the left rim that angles the chair toward the bathroom door, and I stumble after him like I’m being towed. Which I am. A man in a wheelchair is physicallytowing me toward a bathroom with a lock on the door and my pulse is already in my ears.
He wheels through the wide doorway. My hip clips the frame as I follow because I’m not paying attention to where I’m going. I’m watching the back of his neck and the way his hand hasn’t loosened on my wrist for a single second.
He stops in the middle of the bathroom and sets the brakes. “Get the door,” he says.
