Just Remember to Breathe (7 page)

The flip side of being a lucky guy is, sometimes I’m not the same guy I was. I want to draw a picture in your mind. Just imagine a brain… a big gray blob, connected to your body through the brain stem and spinal cord, floating and cushioned by fluid and protected by my big thick skull. Now take a sledgehammer and hit it, hard.
 

That’s pretty much what happened. It’s been tough to accept, to be honest with you. I may not have been the best student in the world, but I was pretty damned smart. Used to be, anyway. Now… I have some problems. Can’t remember things sometimes. Like where I’m supposed to be, or what day it is, or how to add and subtract. It’s much worse when I’m tired, but you can see evidence pretty frequently, when I forget words. I’ll just be talking up a storm, then all of the sudden I’ll forget simple words—like blue, or sky, or my own name. It’ll be right there on the tip of my tongue, but I just can’t get it out.
 

In any event, when I got accepted to Columbia, the Atlanta VA made arrangements for me to continue my physical therapy here in New York. Three times a week I’m down at the VA on East 23
rd
to get poked and prodded, stretched and pulled.

“Morning,” I said when I was called and walked slowly, without the cane, to Jerry Weinstein’s office.

Jerry’s a big guy. A monster. A fortyish Marine who lost a leg in Iraq back in 2004, he’s got zero sympathy for any bullshit from me. Strangely, I like him. But God if he doesn’t love to cause me pain.

“What’s up, Paris? Why are you so cheerful? It’s Monday morning.”

I looked at him, tried to keep a straight face, and said, “I can’t think of any place I’d rather spend my Monday mornings than with a washed up Marine with a cruelty fetish.”

He guffawed. “You’re gonna get extra work for that, dogface.”

“Bring it, jarhead.”

He stood with a grin, asked, “All right, how’s the leg?”

“Better. I’ve been off the cane for a few days. I carry it around just in case. Still moving slow as hell, though.”

“What about the noggin?” he asked, tapping the side of his head.

I shrugged. “Struggling some, especially with math. I used to be really good at math.”

“Hmm,” he said, nodding. “Any light sensitivity?”

I tapped my sunglasses. “Yeah, always.”

“Headaches?”

“Might be better, I’m not sure.”

“All right. When was your last CAT scan?”
 

I thought about it. Then shook my head. “I don’t know. It was in Atlanta… three weeks ago? A month ago?”

He nodded, slowly, then said, “All right, time to get another. I’m going to set you up for an appointment with the brain docs for next week. Let’s see that leg.”

He did an examination of my right leg. It hurt. The muscles in my thigh and calf were still extremely weak: you could visibly see that my right leg was way smaller than the left.

“Coming along,” he said. “I think it’s time you got back to running.”

“
Running?
I can barely walk!”

“Yeah. Time to quit stalling, Paris. Just make sure you have a friend with you, in case you fall over and can’t get up.” He flashed a grin at me. “But I want you up and running, Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. Start out short distance, but get out there and do it. You hear me?”

I nodded grimly, then said, “I don’t have any friends.”

“Yeah, well, hire someone, then. But get out there and do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You only say that because you love me.”

“Sure, Jerry.”

“All right, asshole. Time for your workout.”

Grimly, I nodded and stood. I kept thinking. Who could I ask to spot me when I was running? There was no one. Or, there was one person, but… could I ask her? Was it crazy to even think so? I didn’t want her taking pity on me. I didn’t want her doing it because she knew I was friendless and alone. I didn’t want her doing it because of our past, which was against the rules to talk about anyway. And the hell of it was, no matter what I did, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I couldn’t stop imagining her scent, I couldn’t stop thinking of how wonderful it once felt to hold her in my arms.

A little hair of the dog (Alex)

Dylan and I had settled into a bit of a routine. We were both on the same schedule, work-study with Doctor Forrester on Monday, Wednesday, Friday from 3 p.m. until 6. We were making a lot of progress, and had categorized most of Forrester’s library within the first two weeks. Once, maybe twice a week, we’d go get some coffee afterward, and talk.

Dylan was different. I’d known that since we first encountered each other again, but sometimes I could see it in conversation. Yeah, he was physically different, of course. But he was also quieter. When we knew each other in Israel, he always had a goofy smile, made silly jokes. Now, not so much. Occasionally I had to prod a little to get him to talk at all. It was disconcerting.

This day was different. I’d been delayed in class, and I got to Doctor Forrester’s office a few minutes late.

When I walked in the door, Dylan looked like… I don’t know. Like he was sick. His face was pale, and he was staring out the window, not actually doing anything, and he was breathing really quickly.

“Hey,” I said. “Are you okay?”

He looked at me, startled. He was wearing sunglasses in the office, something he did pretty frequently, now that I thought about it. Almost like he was hung over. But Dylan didn’t drink. At least he didn’t used to.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m all right, just a rough morning.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“No,” he said.
 

Well, that wasn’t ambiguous.
 

We went to work, sorting through the last of Forrester’s collection. Next time we’d be moving over to the library of rare books and manuscripts to start searching for additional materials. I dreaded the change. Not because there was anything horrible about it, but mostly because I’d come to really enjoy our sessions in Forrester’s office.

Speak of the devil. The door opened, and Forrester stumbled in.
 

His eyes went to Dylan, and when he saw his pale face and sunglasses he grinned. “Good afternoon, you two. The morning after is always a little rough, isn’t it Dylan?”

Dylan sort of grunted, didn’t really answer.

“A little hair of the dog?”

“No thank you, sir.”

That was the first time I came close to really disliking Forrester.
 

An hour later we were sitting in the coffee shop. He was looking worse, his face even paler than before. I said, “Dylan, I’m worried about you. You sure you’re okay?”

He took off his sunglasses and rubbed his hands against his eyes. His hands trembled.

“Hey,” I said. I leaned forward when he put his hands down, and took one of them in my own. “I know we’ve got our… um… history. But if you need to talk, I’m here.”

He looked almost as startled as I was when I took his hand. He looked at me, and swallowed. I let go, and you know, it kind of hurt to do that.

He shook his head, quickly, then muttered, “Brain injury. I’m not sure I’m going to make it through school. I’m not…”

He tried to say something else, then just stopped. I’d seen him do this several times over the last couple weeks. He’d be saying something, then just clam up. He closed his eyes, emphasizing the dark circles under them, and took a couple of breaths. Then he said, “I’m not… smart. Not like I used to be. Can’t remember things.”

Oh, Dylan.
I had to blink back tears.

“Maybe I can help,” I said, very quietly.
Please, just say yes.
Okay, Kelly was right. I still loved him, and seeing him like this, on a bad day, made me want to go quietly somewhere and cry.
Please,
I thought,
let this man heal
.
And God, please protect my heart, because I can’t take breaking it again.

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Well,” I said, sadly. “Think about it.”

“There is one thing,” he said in a husky whisper.

“What?”

“My doc says… I have to start running again. And… well… you’ve seen how I walk. I need a spotter. Basically someone to follow me and call the ambulance when I fall over.”

“You want me to… run with you?”

He nodded. His eyes darted away from me, as if he was looking for an escape route, then back. “Look, I shouldn’t have asked. I just don’t really know anyone here.”

My heart might have stopped. “I’d be happy to go running with you, Dylan. When?”

“Tomorrow? At six?”

“In the morning?”

“Is that too early?”

Yes.

“No. That’s fine.”

Good God.
What was I doing?

My mouth ran off with me again. “Let me get your number, in case something comes up.”

So, for the first time since we broke up last February, we exchanged phone numbers.

After we split up, I walked back to the dorm. And I was afraid. Oh, God I was afraid. Afraid I was going to ruin it. Even more afraid that he would. That I’d let myself get close to him again, and that I’d let him break my heart again.

Last February… it was a nightmare. I’d cried myself to sleep every night. Tortured myself really.

I was a mess.

I got back to the dorm and let myself in, then sat down on my bed, my eyes turning to the bottom drawer of my bureau.
Don’t do it,
I thought. I’d packed everything away, when six weeks had gone by with no word from him, no response from him.

Feeling like I was going to cry, feeling like a robot with no control over my own actions, I leaned forward and slid open the drawer.

To a casual examination—for example a nosy-as-hell roommate—there were folded sweaters in the drawer.

Underneath, however, was a box. I slid the box out of the drawer, sat it on the bed next to me, and opened it.

On top was an eight-by-ten photo of me and Dylan. He was leaning on the grass on his side, head propped on his right arm. He wore a black trenchcoat and a white turtleneck, and he was smiling. I was curled up against his legs, facing him. In the photo our eyes are locked, faces close together, huge smiles on both of our faces.
 

A tear ran down my face, looking at it. Angrily, I swiped it away, then set the photo to the side.

Underneath the picture was a thick leather photo album.

Inside was our own love story.

There we were, together in Tel Aviv. Holding hands as we walked on the pier in Jaffa. Standing waist deep in the Mediterranean Sea, arms around each other.
 

Sitting together on the tour bus. He was wearing the ridiculous kuffiyah he’d bought in Nazareth. I was wearing a light brown sweater, hair loose around my shoulders. Because he liked it down. His arm was around my shoulder.

A whole series of the youth hostel in Ein Gedi near the Dead Sea… where we’d kissed for the first time.

Someone took a picture of us together standing on the Golan Heights, the Sea of Galilee to our backs. He was standing behind me, arms around my waist, my head thrown back in a giant laugh.
 

A series of greying photos taken in the photo booth at the bus station in San Francisco. He’d taken a Greyhound all the way from Atlanta to see me, the summer after his senior year. In the photos he was wearing a leather jacket and fedora, and we were kissing.

Dried roses. They’d come on my nineteenth birthday, last fall, not long after he left for Afghanistan. It was the last thing I’d ever expected, to have flowers delivered from halfway around the world on my birthday.

When Kelly walked in the room, I was curled up on my bed crying, surrounded by all the evidence of my stupid inability to let go.
 

She got one look and said, “Oh, no. Alex, hun. You’ve got it bad.”

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry Kelly.”

“It’s okay, babe. Slide over.”
 

I did, and she climbed into bed beside me and hugged me while I cried my eyes out.

Just remember to breathe (Alex)

The alarm started ringing at an ungodly hour. As in before six in the morning. I hadn’t seen that early in the morning since high school, and I’d been perfectly happy that way.

Kelly, across the room from me, muttered, “Oh my God, what the hell is that?” then started snoring again.

At first, I rolled over and hit the snooze button. I closed my eyes, thinking I should just go back to sleep. My mind drifted, half unconscious, to a semi-dream.
 

I was holding hands with Dylan, and it was the summer before my senior year of high school. I could feel the calluses on the tips of his fingers from guitar playing. We’d walked a quarter of the way out on the Golden Gate Bridge, staying close the entire time, and were looking down at the bay. His eyes were wide, dreamy, and we talked about our dreams of the future.

We were struggling, because our dreams were… different. He was going to travel, and write. I was going to college, probably in New York. He was finished with high school, and planned on leaving the country within months. I had another year in San Francisco. We’d turned to each other, there on the bridge, and as the wind blew through our hair he gently kissed me.

Dylan.

Dylan.

My eyes popped open. It was 5:56, and I was going to be late.

I jerked out of bed, stumbled, and fell flat, catching myself at the last second. Heart beating rapidly, I threw open my top drawer and started throwing clothes, trying to find something to wear.

“What are you doing?”
 

Kelly asked, her voice slurred with sleep.

“I’m late. To go running with Dylan.”

“Oh. I must be dreaming. It sounded like you said you’re going running. I’ll talk to you later.”

Her words faded into a mumble, and I finally found some shorts, a sports bra and a halter top. Where the hell were my sneakers? I searched for them, and finally stumbled over them and nearly hit my head. Oh, God. I was being such a spaz.
 

At 6:05 I sent Dylan a quick text message:

Running Late. There vry soon.