By the following week, I still haven’t heard back from the realtor, but I haven’t lost hope either. I grab take-out Mexican on my way over to Matt’s house on Tuesday night after work: tacos for me and Brett and a chicken quesadilla for Matt. He’s lost weight, but he’s also having more good days than bad. I offer to take the next day off for his appointment with the cardiologist, an important date that’s been on the Thompsons’ calendar for over a month, during which he’ll find out what was captured by the mobile heart monitor and whether or not he has atrial fibrillation. I want to be there for him, but Matt’s mom already has plans to go. Instead, I take the day off to hang out with Brett, which is a huge relief to Matt. He doesn’t want her to be inside a doctor’s office if she doesn’t have to be. Doctors scare Brett, especially now. So, for the sake of convenience, Matt invites me to sleep over at their house. That way, I’ll already be there when he leaves with his mom early the next morning.
It’s weird, the idea of sleeping at Matt’s house—the home he shares with his (still absent) girlfriend. I try to put all the awkward feelings out of my mind and to focus on Brett instead. I bring my laptop, onto which I’ve downloaded another of my favorite movies from childhood:Troop Beverly Hills, a silly comedy about a group of Girl Scoutswho are led by a wealthy socialite through a competition they’re really not cut out for. In keeping with the theme of Scouts and camping, I also bring the ingredients for stovetop s’mores.
As we eat dinner, Brett chats excitedly about the sleepover. Matt remains reserved, stifling anxiety about his appointment the next day. He smiles at Brett and responds at all the right times, but I can tell he’s somewhere else.
After dinner, I set Brett up with the materials to make friendship bracelets while we watch the movie. I instruct Brett to get started on a bracelet without me. “I just want to talk to your dad for a few minutes. You watch the previews, and I’ll be back in five,” I promise her. Brett gives me a thumbs up.
I go down the hall to Matt’s bedroom and knock gently on the door. He’s standing in front of his dresser without a shirt on. I can’t help but notice the weight he’s lost and the way the tattoo of the Celtic cross on his bicep looks wilted, faded like an old watercolor painting. “Hey,” I say. “How you holding up?”
He turns around, pulling a fresh, white T-shirt over his head. “I’m okay.”
“Try to think positive,” I offer.
“That’s the thing. It’s kind of hard to do that. The doctors keep saying I’ve been really lucky so far, but I’m not 100 percent out of the woods yet. Strokes are kind of like dandelions. If you have one dandelion and you get rid of it with weed killer, there’s still a really high chance that more dandelions will pop up.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually. I’ve done more research on this than I care to admit. Plus, all the doctors say the same thing. They just try and put a happy little spin on it. Best case scenario is I quit smoking and eat healthy and take care of myself, and I don’t have another stroke. But I stillhave to take baby aspirin every day for the rest of my life. Which is basically just a reminder that it could happen again at any time.” He sighs. “Honestly, it’s more likely to happen than not. Do you knowhowhealthy I have to be? I’m not supposed to drink alcohol, eat fast food, anything. That’s no way to live.”
He’s right, I know. I, too, have spent more hours on Google researching stroke recovery than I care to admit. I sit down on the edge of his bed and pat the space beside me. Matt joins me.
“You’re right. This totally sucks,” I confess.
“I’m sorry,” he says, looking down at his hands in his lap.
“Nah. None of that. I just wanted to remind you that you’re not alone in this. We’ve got your back, you know?”
He nods. “I know. I appreciate it, believe me.”
I take his hand, stroking his palm with my thumb. No words are necessary. After a minute, I place my other hand over his and squeeze. “You should get to bed. I have a hot date with an 80s movie and my best girl.” I wink.
He offers a weak smile. “She loves you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” I assure him, releasing his hands.
“Hey,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“When this part of it is over, like, once we figure out what’s next with my situation health-wise, I really want to focus on what’s happening here.” He points to me and then to himself and back to me again.
I’m about to respond when an iPhone calls out a particular, loud melody, indicating a Facetime call.
“I got it!” Brett calls from the next room.
“Shit,” Matt says. “She has the iPad.”
“Hi, Mommy!” I hear Brett announce cheerfully. Matt’s eyes grow wide and meet mine.
“Just stay here,” he whispers, rising from the bed’s edge and moving into the living room. The iPad is loud enough and the house is small enough that I can hear everything.
“Hi Bretty Bear! How’s my girl?”
“Good, Mom! We’re having a sleepover tonight!”
Fuck.
“Oh, yeah? That sounds fun. Is Grandma sleeping there?”
