The kitchen area is to my left. Lowered counters and a sink with a lever handle. The countertop is butcher block, and the cabinets are within reach from the chair. I pull up to thecounter and my armrests fit underneath it and the height is right, the exact height of a man who sits.
The bathroom is through a wide doorway on the east wall. I can see the tile from here, white with a blue-gray accent that I’d bet money Stormy chose because it looks like the Gulf on an overcast day. Roll-in shower with a bench. Grab bars that don’t look institutional because Stormy found ones that look like they belong in a beach house. A mirror set at two heights, standing and sitting.
The bedroom space is along the back wall, partitioned by a curtain track mounted to the ceiling. The curtain is pulled open and the bed is there, lower than a standard bed, with a navy comforter. The same color as the sheets in my house. Stormy must’ve seen them when they picked up my things.
I wheel to the windows. The Gulf is right there with the pelicans working the surf and a fishing boat sitting on the horizon. A small deck is on the other side of the glass, accessible through a sliding door wide enough for the chair, and the deck has new planking, smooth and gapless. Interlocking composite tiles.
The last time I saw the water from this building, I was standing on the lower deck, holding a beer and watching the sunset. I could feel the wood under my bare feet. The warmth of it after a full day of sun. I didn’t think about it. You never think about the things your body does until your body stops doing them.
Now I’m sitting on the second floor gripping the armrests of my wheelchair and the wood could be hot or cold and I wouldn’t know.
But the Gulf is the same as it ever was. Every bit as beautiful. The water goes gold in the afternoon and pink at sunset and black at night and it will do that whether I’m standing or sitting or lying in a hospital bed five hours east.
I hear a soft sound behind me. Sneakers quietly moving across the floor.
I turn the chair around. Stormy is standing one step inside the room at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe, his body angled like he might bolt. He’s wearing jeans and a pink Big Tex’s Roadhouse shirt and his blonde hair is falling across his forehead. He’s chewing the inside of his cheek and his free hand is opening and closing at his side.
He’s waiting for my verdict.
“Stormy,” I say.
He doesn’t move.
“Come over here.”
He takes one step. Then another. His eyes are scanning my face fast and thorough, looking for the reaction that will tell him whether the thing he built is right or wrong. Whether the weeks of measuring and researching were worth it.
“It’s perfect, Stormy.”
“The tile in the bathroom, I wasn’t sure about the color, if you wanted white I can… “
“No. The tile is perfect.”
“The counter might be a quarter inch too high. I measured it six times but the butcher block has a slight bow in the center.”
“Stormy.”
He stops talking.
“Come here.”
He walks to me slowly. He stops in front of my wheelchair and his hands are at his sides.
I reach out and pull him into a hug. My arms around his waist because that’s the height I’m at and his body goes rigid for exactly one second before it unlocks. He bends forward and his arms come around my shoulders and he holds on. Tight and shaking. Stormy doesn’t know how to say the big things. He never has. So he drew up a blueprint and built me a home.
“You built this,” I say into his shoulder. “You did this for me.”
He doesn’t answer. His arms tighten. His breathing is ragged against my neck and I can feel the shaking in his chest.
Tex is downstairs. I know he is because I can hear the creak of a barstool taking his weight. He sent Stormy up alone on purpose. He knew this moment belonged to the two of us.
I hold Stormy until the shaking stops. He pulls back and wipes his face with the back of his hand. He doesn’t look at me because looking at me right now would undo him again.
“Thank you, Stormy. For all of it. This is unbelievable.”
“We can change anything you need changing,” he says.
“No changes,” I tell him. “None at all.”
