In the kitchen, Matt stands at the sink, washing dishes. He waves a soapy hand. “Hey.”
I smile at him, take off my coat and hang it up on a hook by the front door next to Brett’s silver and purple fluffy winter jacket and Matt’s black fleece. I approach the sofa. “I brought you something.”
Behind the pink-rimmed glasses, Brett’s face lights up. “Really?”
“Just a little something.” I hand Brett the brown paper bag from CVS as Matt cranes his neck away from the kitchen sink, eavesdropping.
Brett opens the bag and pulls out the gift. She smiles when she sees the picture of the kitten and bunny on the cover. “Thank you,” she replies softly.
I wink at her and take in the space. The lights are all on, including a lamp in the corner of the living room that casts a reddish-orange glow. The house smells like a mixture of pumpkin spice and Chinese food, all coming from the kitchen. A large jar candle is lit on the stove, and a bag of takeout sits on the freshly wiped counter. The small kitchen table is covered with a green and white checkered tablecloth and two place settings.
“Thanks for coming,” Matt says, drying his hands on a dishtowel. He’s wearing a navy-blue hoodie sweatshirt, jeans, and white socks and his brown hair is buzzed short, which is different than I’m used to. His skin is a bit pinker this time, maybe from the lighting. Dark circles hang under his eyes, but his smile is strangely the same as ever, bringing life to a sad yet otherwise familiar face.
“Of course. Thanks for dinner. I’m starving, actually.”
“Well, Brett just ate. I told her you’d be here at 8:30 but she couldn’t wait that long.”That explains why the table is set for two.“I’ll join you, though.”
I look at Brett, who has opened her new box of crayons and is busily using the brown to color in the floppy ear of a puppy in the book. She’s got Velveteen propped up against a pillow and is leaning forward toward the solid surface of the coffee table, still engaged in her Disney show.
“Half an hour,” Matt warns Brett. “Then it’s bedtime for you, Miss.”
Brett looks up at him and adjusts her glasses, a faint smile playing at her lips. “Okay, Daddy.”
Mattbrings the Chinese food over to the table and unpacks the bag. I open a white container and shovel a small mountain of shrimp and broccoli onto one of the ceramic dishes.
“Want some?” He gestures toward the soup.
“No, thanks. I’m set with all this,” I reply, waving a pair of chopsticks over my plate.
He breathes in the steam from a still-hot container of wonton soup. I mash a scoop of rice into the brown sauce from my shrimp and broccoli. I dig in, giving up the chopsticks in favor of a traditional fork within a few bites. Once my initial hunger has been quelled, I notice Matt’s only sipping broth. Slowly.
“You okay?” I ask, gulping.
“Yeah. Sorry. I’m not particularly interested in food.”
The answer strikes me. “Does it make you feel sick?”
Matt shakes his head. “No, it’s nothing like that. I’m just not hungry.” He shrugs. “It’s weird. I know.”
I set my fork down, suddenly feeling guilty for wolfing down food in front of him. It’s a reminder of why I’m even here in the first place.Matt Thompson had a stroke.
I wonder how often he comes up against this revelation in his own daily life.
“So,” I begin.
He slurps at a spoonful of soup. “Mm?”
“Am I allowed to ask what happened?”
He swallows, nodding. “Yeah,” he says, in a voice low enough that Brett would have to strain to hear. “I woke up, hmm. When was it? I guess almost three weeks ago. Man, I can’t believe it’s already been that long,” he muses. “Anyway, I woke up and I didn’t feel normal. I was dizzy and I couldn’t walk straight. My vision was all weird and blurry, and I told Leyla something wasn’t right.” He drops his decibelto a whisper. “Then, Brett looked at me and screamed. Apparently, my eyes were each facing out, like away from each other. It must have looked terrifying to her.”
“Oh my God. That must have been awful.”
Matt nods.
“I mean for you,” I clarify.
“Oh.” He looks down at his soup, hard. “Yeah.” Inhaling, he says, “I’m fine,” steeling himself to continue. “So, Leyla called 9-1-1. I waited outside for them because I didn’t want to scare Brett any worse. The cops got to me before an ambulance did. And, you want to know the kicker? They kept asking me what I was on.”
