Chapter 32: Mickey
Benji follows me inside and the loft is dim. The only light is what’s coming through the windows from the bar sign below, the neon turning everything soft red and gold. I don’t turn on a lamp. The dark feels right.
I stop the chair near the curtained off section of the bedroom. Benji is behind me. I’ve rehearsed this. In my head, in the dark, in the hours between midnight and dawn. I’ve thought about how to do the transfer from the chair to the bed. How my legs will need to be arranged. The parts of all this that used to be automatic and are now a sequence of actions.
The parts that scare me have nothing to do with Benji and everything to do with the body I’m sitting in.
“Mickey.”
He’s right behind the chair. His hands land on my shoulders, warm through the shirt, and his thumbs press into the muscles at the base of my neck how they’ve pressed a hundred times before.
“We don’t have to do anything tonight,” he says. “We can just sleep. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. There’s no clock. No rush.”
“I know there’s no clock. That’s why I want to do this now. Because there’s no nurse and this is my home. You’re here and I’m tired of stopping.”
His thumbs go still on my neck.
“But I need to tell you something first,” I say.
He comes around the chair and crouches in front of me. His face is level with mine. “Tell me.”
“The sensation below my waist. It’s more than I told you at rehab. It’s been increasing. The spots on my thighs have spread. Steve says the neural pathways are continuing to find new routes. The swelling is still going down. Things are waking up that were asleep.”
He’s watching me and trying very hard not to cry. “How much more?” he asks.
“Enough that I feel things I didn’t feel a month ago. Not all the time or reliably. But the signals are there. Pressure. Warmth. Sometimes more than that.” I pause. This is the hardest part to say. “I need to be completely honest with you. I don’t know what my body is going to do tonight, Benji. I’ve only tested it alone and the results have been inconsistent. Some nights there’s a response. Some nights there’s nothing. I can’t promise you anything about what happens below my waist.”
“You don’t need to promise me anything, Mickey.” He takes both my hands. “I don’t care what works or doesn’t. It doesn’t matter if nothing happens or everything happens or something in between. I’m here for you. I’ll be grateful for every second of whatever your body does. I’m finally here alone with you and I’m thrilled about that. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“I need you to believe me,” he says. “Because you’re trying to warn me that you might not be enough and I need youto stop. You’re more than enough. Whatever we do tonight is perfect.”
His hands are gripping mine. I believe him. Not because he said the right words, but because I know his heart.
“Okay.” I take a deep breath. “Give me a minute to get situated on the bed. To transfer from the chair to the bed. It’s a process. My legs don’t go where I want them. I have to move them with my hands and arrange them. It’s not something I want you to see me do tonight.”
I expect him to tell me he doesn’t care, that nothing about my body could change the way he looks at me. All the things he’s said before that are true and still don’t fix the way my stomach knots at the thought of him watching me lift my own legs into position like luggage.
“I understand,” he says. He kisses the side of my head and stands up. “I need to go freshen up anyway. I want to be pretty for you. Take your time. Yell when you’re ready for me.”
He pulls the curtain closed behind him on his way out. The rings scrape along the rod and then I hear him walk to the bathroom.
I’m alone.
I wheel the chair to the side of the bed, close enough that the edge is within reach. I lock the brakes again. Left hand on the mattress. Right hand on the armrest. Push up. Pivot. The transfer I’ve done many times. My arms take the weight. My core fires. I swing my hips onto the mattress, and my legs follow because I guide them with my hands.
I pull myself back against the headboard, then I look down at my legs, straight and still in front of me. I can’t help thinking about what Benji will see when he comes back. Hopefully, just me, sitting up like a normal guy, waiting for him.
I hear the bathroom door open. His footsteps cross the loft, barefoot on the wood.
“Are you ready?” he calls from the other side of the curtain. He doesn’t pull it back and is waiting for me to say the words.
“Get in here,” I say.
The curtain slides open. He gives me the same smile I see every time he hears my same greeting and walks into my room. He climbs onto the bed and kneels beside me.
“I’m so damn happy right now,” he says, then his hands find my face and he kisses me.
