I’m losing ground fast. The lower he goes, the more unpredictable he’s going to become. I have to get something in him. I wrack my brain, trying to think of something—anything to get us through this.
I feel the blow from his balled fist seconds after I register his movement. Fuck. Eighty or not, that fucking hurt. This is not Bernard, this is not Bernard—my mantra as I fight to calm my anger.
I turn the rage into action. I grab another glass from the cabinet, this time, a plastic one, trying to avoid an even bigger mess. If he doesn’t drink it now, I’ll have to call 911. I can’t let him lose consciousness. The last time he did, he began seizing immediately.
I need to catch him off guard. Do something unexpected.
Armed with new juice, I take a deep breath and call on the anger I feel every day at this disease. Fuck diabetes. Fuck everything about it. But most of all, fuck low blood sugar and its unpredictability.
“You’re going to drink this fucking juice.” I let the rage carry through my voice. “Quit fucking with me, old man! You’ll do it for her, dammit!”
I’m shaking now, inches from his face. My anger is a palpable thing, as real as the orange juice sloshing in the cup—begging for action.
He grabs the cup from my hand, juice sloshing over the side. I’ve lost. He’s going to pitch it in my face. I hold my breath as ever so slowly, it heads toward his mouth. I’m afraid to move. Anything could set him off and change his hand’s course. I don’t breathe again until I see his Adam’s apple carrying the precious liquid down his throat. I take a much needed breath.
He finishes the whole cup, his aged body slumping into the chair, diminishing the force and vitality from moments before. A weak, tired, old man is left in their place.
I don’t say anything for what feels like an eternity. When he looks up at me, his eyes are full of regret and sorrow. I stand to retrieve his monitor. This isn’t over.
“Let’s take a look, see where you’re at.” I ready everything and reach my hand out for his. I’m relieved when I feel his shaky hand in mine. There’ll be no more fighting. I prick his finger and wait. 32.
We glance at the machine’s readout, both of us held captive by the number…before I snap into action. Pulling a loaf of bread from the bread box and a jar of peanut butter from the cupboard, I set out to complete the simple task—my mind calming as I do. Within moments, I set a peanut butter sandwich in front of him. I don’t say anything. I don’t need to now. Even if his mind is shaky, his body knows what it needs to do. It doesn’t take long for him to finish the sandwich.
This is the time I hate the most. With Brice, I always fear something will happen, and her mind will never fully return to her. It usually only lasts a handful of minutes, but those moments can stretch into an eternity, waiting for her to break the silence. As I sit quietly, waiting for Bernard, the feeling is no different.
I need to move.
While Bernard recovers, I clean the mess this disease has made of his home. I glance at him after I wipe the rinsed rag across the hard wood for the last time. He’s sitting taller now, his hands folded in front of him, thumbs bouncing against one another. His eyes lift to meet mine, and I’m surprised to see them shimmering with unshed tears.
“I’m so sorry, Harry. So sorry. I could never repay you the debt I owe you.” The sadness on his face quickly morphs into something else as I turn to face him directly. He reaches his hand out to touch me from his place at the table before he breaks down completely. Silent sobs wrack him—the force of them causing his whole body to shake.
“Hey, hey. That’s enough of that. Do you know how cool this shiner’s gonna be?” I reach up and touch the tender skin, holding in the wince that wants to escape me. “All the high school kids will be talking about it. Especially after they hear the story I’m going to make up to go along with it.” I laugh, hoping to break him from his sadness, hoping to free his mind from the effects of this terrible fucking disease.
He’s quiet for a moment—his thoughts unknown to me. But his tears have stopped, and his breathing is beginning to even out. “Let me come—talk to them. We can at least turn this into a learning experience.” His eyes meet mine, and I see that he’s put his sadness to rest. Always the optimist. I grab his hand, wishing I could do more, say more, but no words come.
I’m surprised when he pushes his chair back, the legs making a scraping sound as they slide across the floor. He stands in front of me, holding his hand out. I stand, and he wraps his feeble arms around me. I relax into them, patting him on the back. The sharp knobs of his spine feel so prominent through his sweater.
“Tomorrow and I—we don’t have quite the agreement we used to have. Lately, I’m not sure if it’s going to show or not, so I have to make the most of today.”
His words hit me like ice water to the face, and I start to feel like I can’t breathe in the small space. I give a final squeeze before I step back, ashamed at my reaction.
“Don’t look so surprised.” He laughs, the sound like gravel pinging off glass. “It’s not like I can live forever.”
We both stand quietly. I feel like I’ve been robbed of my voice, and I pray that he gets to meet my daughter, that she will feel his scratchy beard as he lays gentle kisses on her forehead. If all his tomorrows are lost, I pray he will get that one. He deserves to feel that kind of happiness before he leaves us forever.
“I love you, son. Just know that.”
“I’m going to make up a bed on the couch. I’ll stay over tonight.” I leave the room without glancing back, needing to distance myself from the waves of emotion in the kitchen.
26
Questions and Answers
I step out of the shower, grabbing my towel from the counter. The throbbing in the center of my shoulder blades feels like it has its own heartbeat separate from mine. This pain doesn’t belong to me. I take a deep breath in and slowly roll my shoulders, trying to will it away. Bernard’s couch is tiny, and I think it was made sometime in the seventies. It’s not a couch for a full-grown man to sleep on.
Brice bursts into the room, car keys in one hand, her purse in the other. “I gotta pee.” She flings everything down on the counter in her haste to the toilet. “That was the longest drive ever. Ahhh… I didn’t think I was going to make it.”
The look of relief that overcomes her face causes my body to harden in longing for her. She’s so fucking gorgeous. Her gaze is directly on me, and when she licks her lip, I let out a groan. Her eyes slowly roam up my naked body, and I want nothing more than to take her right here on the bathroom floor.
Her eyebrows furrow, and she quickly stands up, the lust she had just been wearing set aside for something else. What just happened?
“What happened?” she asks, reaching for my eye, and it all comes back to me. “What did you do? Did you get in a fight?”
A strangled laugh rises up, and I cover my mouth to try to block its escape. “It was Bernard.” I smile and try to pull off amused, but I know it won’t work. It never does. My thoughts are hers before I even have them.
Fear flashes across her face. She turns, dashing from the bathroom. Shit. I didn’t realize I wouldn’t have time to speak, or I would have said something differently. I slip back into my shorts, leaving my work clothes on the counter, and head after her.
The back door is wide open, and when I reach its mouth, I can see Bernard’s door is wide open, too. I hope he’s finished with his shower already.
“Are you okay?” Brice is looking Bernard over as if she were his mother.
I feel lighter than I have in days. I’m so glad she’s home. They care for each other better than anyone else can.
“I’m fine. It’s Harrison you should be worried about.”
I try to be offended when he lets out a chuckle, but I can’t. He hears me laugh and looks my way with a wink.
Swinging his arm back, he acts out a punch. “I sucker-punched him right in the eye, and he had the good grace to not hit me back.
Then he slept on that rickety, old couch for two nights. God knows why.” He looks at me and shakes his head. “You’re pouring your attention in the wrong place, little one. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get ready for my day.” He heads back toward the bathroom.
Brice stands staring after him, her hands resting on her swollen belly, absently rubbing circles across it. Her hands are always there, cradling our baby. She finally looks back at me, a small smile on her face. “I guess he’s all right… How about you?” She makes her way down the porch steps until she’s standing in front of me, her bare feet joining mine in the damp grass.
I reach out for her, drawn by the magnetic pull she has over me. My hands slip into her messy curls, and I pull her to me, longing for the connection of mouth and tongue. Her lips part and she takes me in—the world brightening in the best possible way. I slip my hand down her body and rest it on her stomach. I feel something brush against it from the inside, and I pull my mouth from hers. “Did she? Did she just move?”
“You felt it?”
She’s been trying to get me to feel it for weeks, but I never could. Every time I placed my hand on her belly, the movement stopped, and it’s been driving her crazy.
She lets out a squeal and her hand covers mine. “Yay! I thought you would never feel her. I feel her all the time. I’m so glad you can feel it. Isn’t she lovely? My little lovely.” The love in her voice causes a ripple of goosebumps to cover my arms despite the warm morning sun on my back.
“It’s amazing.” There’s nothing else to say. The movement inside of her—our daughter’s movement—is the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.
Her eyes hold mine for a lifetime, the wrinkle in her brow getting deeper with every moment. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks, biting on her lower lip.
I bring my thumb up, rubbing it across her lip, extricating it from the grasp of her teeth.
“I’m sure. I missed you like crazy, though. How’s Jayden?”
“I don’t know. It’s always so hard to tell with her. When we were kids, I could never get her to stop talking. Now it’s like she hardly has anything to say. I’ve been trying to figure out what happened for ten years, but I still don’t know. I don’t even know what’s happening to her now.” Her lip is trapped by her teeth once again, her hand twisting the beads at her wrist. I wish she could let this go, but I know she never will. Jayden ran away from home when they were just sixteen. She took off to Seattle, and Brice didn’t know where she was for two years. She still doesn’t know why Jayden left and it drives her crazy. “Sometimes I think I should just let her go. She doesn’t belong to me anymore. Maybe she never did.”
“Why’d you leave so early? I wasn’t expecting you home until later.” I grab her hand, walking back toward our house.
“I went to the science center yesterday. It was really inspiring.” She pauses as we reach the steps, tears in her eyes. “I don’t know where she was. She left early, saying something about a work emergency. You know, she’s so vague about her work; I don’t even know what she does.” Anger mingles with her words, warring for a place amongst the hurt. “When I woke at three this morning, restless for a paintbrush, I just left. I’m sure Jayden will understand. It’s totally her style,” she says with a sad little laugh.
“I’m sorry.” I pull her hand up, grazing her knuckles with kisses. “Jayden’s Jayden. I don’t know if you’ll ever know her secrets. It might be time to just let it go. Accept that you’ll never know.”
“I don’t know if I can do that,” she replies softly. “I missed you.” Her eyes tell me the subject is closed.
27
The Teacher Returns
“Mr. Shelton, what a pleasure. When Mr. Wade asked if you could come in for an impromptu lesson, I agreed immediately. It’ll be a real treat to have you lecturing in our halls again,” Ms. Brand says as she walks us down to my classroom.
Her silver curls bounce with each step. The way she’s fawning all over Bernard causes a smirk to take over my face, and no matter how much I try to contain it, I can’t. He hasn’t seemed this happy in years.
“Ms. Brand, I didn’t realize you were still with the school. Do you think you’ll ever retire?” Bernard asks her, surprising me with his bluntness.
“Oh, heavens, no. I married the job, Mr. Shelton. You wouldn’t leave a spouse late in life, would you? This is my life, the journey I chose, and I plan to see it through all the way till the end.”
I’m a little surprised and saddened by her reply. I keep hearing rumors from above that the school board has been considering a forced retirement. She just turned eighty-two.
“I respect that,” Bernard replies, as we cross the threshold into my classroom. Ms. Brand stays on the other side of the door frame. She rarely steps foot into a class. It’s as if there’s an invisible barrier keeping her out. But she owns the halls.
“Would you like to sit in today?” The slight smile on Bernard’s face tells me that he knows she won’t accept.
“No, no. I have plenty to do to keep this place running. I leave the teaching to the teachers.” She reaches her hand out to shake Bernard’s and giggles like a schoolgirl when he brings her hand up, grazing her knuckles with a kiss.
“It’s lovely to see you again, Betsy.” He raises his hat briefly before turning in toward the room.
“Harry, you dog. You didn’t tell me you were teaching in my old room.”
Bernard walks in lazy circles around the classroom, hand on his chest, slowly shaking his head. He glances over at me, the smile on his face not matching the tears in his eyes. “I had a lot of good days in here.” His voice is low, full of memories. “I know what she means—being married to the job. I mourned the loss of this place almost the same way I mourned for my broken marriage. If it hadn’t been for Brice showing up. Needing me…” His thoughts trail off as he sits, shaking his head. “Well, I owe a lot to you. To both of you.”
“Friendship isn’t measured that way, Bernard. You owe us nothing. You’ve given so much already.” I know he knows this already. He has to.
“Boy, what did I ever give you…besides a bruised head?” His laughter fills the room, just as the first students start to arrive.
He’ll have six classes to talk to today. Six opportunities to spread knowledge and understanding about a disease that’s grossly misportrayed in society today. I expect to hear a lot of things that will have me grinding my teeth. I hope his smooth words will break through the stigma that’s been placed.
Bernard stands at the front of the room, his hands clasped in front of his chest, a small smile on his face as he waits for them to give him their attention—and they will. I’m not sure how he does it, but I’ve never seen him start a lecture without everyone’s eyes on him. He doesn’t ask for it—not with words.
“Before I retired, everyone referred to me as Mr. Shelton. Today, you can just call me Bernard. Mr. Wade was generous enough to let me come talk with each of you today. I’m not here to talk to you about the greats in literature, nor will I be sharing my favorite poems. Today’s lesson will be much different than the ones I previously taught in this room.”
He walks to the desk, leaning his small frame against it, arms crossed in front of his chest. He wouldn’t let me put a chair in the front of the room. He said you can’t captivate an audience sitting down. Our eyes meet, and I hold back a chuckle when he winks at me.
He turns his attention back to the class and asks, “Do any of you know what diabetes is? Have you ever heard of it?”
He’s started every lesson like this today, but no two have ended up the same.
“You there,” he nods toward Erica in the front row.
Good choice. I know she’ll lead the lesson in a positive direction.
“I believe it’s something that happens when a person’s body quits making insulin,” she answers, sounding a bit unsure of herself.
“True, that’s exactly wha
t happens to cause it. Very good…” he pauses, waiting for her to supply her name.
“Erica.” She smiles, a touch of color gracing her cheeks.
“Surprise, surprise. Erica knew the answer,” Matt says, from behind her.
It’s the weirdest thing. He’s always such a good kid, but lately he’s been trying to razz her. I’m not really sure, but I think it might be love.
“And you are?” Bernard asks, failing miserably at his attempt to hide the grin from his face.
“Matt, sir,” he answers, in the most respectful tone.
“Nice to meet you, son,” he says, the tiniest hint of amusement in his voice. “You weren’t trying to make this young lady feel bad, were you?” He pauses for a moment, and Matt shakes his strawberry blonde head, color creeping up his neck and across his cheeks. Poor kid, he’s about to get schooled. “I didn’t think so. I think maybe you’re just strutting your tail feathers. Let me tell you, women don’t like fancy feathers. They like things like kindness and respect. You show her both of those things, and you won’t go wrong.”
Bernard and Matt are both quiet, their eyes locked on one another for a long moment before the spell is broken, and he begins to speak again.
“Sorry, I’m old and my mind wanders.” He lets out a little laugh, shaking his head before he regains his composure. “Let’s get back on topic. Matt, do you know what causes the pancreas to quit making insulin?”
“I’ve heard it happens if you don’t take care of yourself. You know, people who don’t eat right and exercise get it. Right?”
There have only been two people that have known the correct answer to this question today. Both of the kids who knew had someone closely related to them who had the disease.
“You’re only partially right. While poor diet and lack of exercise can cause a person to develop type 2 diabetes, even that’s a hereditary disease—meaning the people who develop type 2 diabetes have a gene that makes them more likely to develop it at some point in their life. With type 2 diabetes, in most cases, the pancreas still creates insulin, but with type 1 it does not. Type 1 is an autoimmune disease. Which means the body’s immune system turns on its own cells, seeing them as a threat. In the case of type 1 diabetes, the immune system attacks the beta cells in the pancreas that create the insulin.”