"You're quite the lucky man," Dr. Learner said as he took the blood pressure wrap off Boris's arm and chuckled, "you live with a nurse. That's going to make things much easier on your part. Granted, she probably won't be very happy with the situation, but hey, you'll be dead soon enough, so at least she won't have to deal with it for too long."
"You're real charming, you know that?" Boris asked, rubbing his arm and making Dr. Learner laugh. After he'd hung the machine back on the wall, he took a seat on the little spinning stool and looked at Boris, who continued massaging his arm where it'd just been slightly squished by the machine. "How are you feeling? Have you told anyone what's happening yet?" Dr. Learner asked. "...I have not. Well, I told my friend Carol, but nobody else. I don't really know how to break this kind of news to people. As for how I'm feeling personally, uh, I could be better but I'm walking again so the joy of that kinda supersedes anything else, doesn't it?" he finished, shrugging, "besides, how does one break news like that? You said it yourself, there's no card for this sort of situation." "Weird isn't it? There's cards for it from the opposite end. My condolences for your loss, etc etc, but nothing from the person dying to give the ones they'll leave behind. 'Sorry for your impending grief' or something akin to that," Dr. Learner said as he stood up and started to gather his things, prepared to end this little follow up; he chuckled and shook his head as he gathered his charts, adding, "I tell ya, they say the worst part of this job is telling people they're going to die, and it's right up there, I won't deny, but in actuality the worst part of this job is being unable to help them get better. Sooner or later we're all gonna die, but I'm in a profession that seeks to extend that lifespan wherever possible, so to be unable to do just that, even if for a bit longer...it stings." Boris smiled weakly, appreciating Alan's candor. Dr. Learner shook Boris's hand, then, charts under arm, exited the examining room, leaving Boris alone on the table. He sighed and stood up, pulling his jacket back on over his short sleeved button down shirt and readjusting his tie. Boris knew he had to start telling people eventually, but he was hoping to get away with that as slowly as possible. He didn't want grief surrounding him while he was still here, after all. Still, he was going to need Whittle's help, considering she was a nurse, but when Boris arrived back at the apartment, Whittle was nowhere to be found. Instead she'd left a note, which simply read: "Running an errand, be back soon." *** "Is that the right house?" Jenn asked, sitting in the passenger seat of the car, wearing a pale yellow turtleneck and brown slacks. Whittle, in the drivers seat, was watching a house across the street from where they'd parked in a nice upscale neighborhood. Whittle, dressed in a brown button down short sleeved shirt and black jeans, nodded in response to the question. "This isn't weird, right? I'm not weird," Whittle said, glancing at Jenn, who just smiled back at her and patted her leg. "It's sweet how considerate you are," Jenn replied, "you lived with and took care of her for a good while, I think she'll be touched by how much you care." "I don't wanna stalk a tween," Whittle said, making Jenn chuckle as she added, "that's not a good look." Just then they saw two adults exit the house, a man and woman - presumably Chrissy's parents - and kiss before getting into their respective cars and driving off. Whittle and Jenn waited a moment, before getting out of the car and heading across the street. This felt so wrong, Whittle thought, but she just couldn't imagine how Chrissy was doing, and she had to know she was alright. As they approached the house, Whittle began looking through the windows, until finally she heard Jenn whistle quietly and came to her. Jenn pointed at the window she was in front of, well towards the back of the house, and Whittle glanced through, spotting Chrissy sitting on her bed, knees pulled to her chest, staring at nothing. Whittle tapped on the glass, and Chrissy sprung up, glancing around. When she caught sight of Whittle, she beamed, and quickly got off the bed and threw open the window, lunging herself out of it and throwing her arms around Whittle's neck. "Hey hey, hah, hi!" Whittle said, surprised by the surprising amount of affection. "You came for me," Chrissy cried into Whittle's neck, and this broke her heart. Whittle raised her hands and rubbed Chrissy's back, nodding. "I did," she said, "I'm here. It's okay. You're okay now." Jenn stepped back and smiled, watching this adorable interaction. This, she thought, was the kind of miracle God allows. *** Lorraine dropped a few ice cubes into the glass and handed it to Boris as she walked back towards the couch in the den. Once seated, she lit a cigarette and took a puff, watching Boris sip his drink cautiously before seating himself on the nearby love seat. "I'm surprised by this little visit," Lorraine said, "certainly not put off, but surprised. Usually you call first. It's rare you just drop on by." "I had to see you," Boris said, "I had to...see you." "Well that's sweet, if not a tad ominous," Lorraine said, chuckling, "I saw your book in a store the other day! Just right out there, in front, next to all the other newish releases. Was pretty vindicating to be able to see your name and think 'hey, I know him, I'm married to him!'. I'm proud of you." "I'm dying," Boris said, flatly, and Lorraine's face changed instantly. She dabbed her cigarette out in the ashtray beside the couch and then leaned forward, smoothing out her skirt over her knees and exhaling. She took a moment, ran her hands through her medium length bobbed haircut and then, finally, looked Boris in the face. "You want to repeat that?" she asked, "because I swear I thought you said-" "I'm dying," Boris said, "...yeah...and uh...I felt like you needed to know before some other people, considering, ya know, you're my wife and the mother of my child. Where is Ellen anyway? I thought she was going to be here today. Said she had something she wanted to show us. Well, either way, you had to hear this. They say it could only take a few months. They've run further tests, and it...there's nothing they can do about it. I just have what time I have left, which could be a few months to a year maybe. Totally uncertain. Regardless, it's terminal." Lorraine nodded, taking it all in before standing up and walking over to the loveseat and sitting next to Boris, putting her hand on his shoulder and looking at him. Boris, embarrassed, looked up from his feet to Lorraine, their eyes meeting, as she smiled and gently stroked his cheek. "To get to know someone as much as I've gotten to know you, to spend an entire lifetime with someone, even if we aren't together always, was such an interesting experience that I feel humbled for being given," Lorraine whispered, resting her forehead against his, tears rolling down her cheeks, "I'm just sorry we wasted so much time." "That's my fault, you shouldn't apologize for it. I was the one who walked away. I just couldn't live with myself after the accident, and I felt like my presence just hurt you both more because you'd never be able to forgive me, when in reality, I was the only one not able to forgive me," Boris said, "so you have nothing to apologize for. I wasted our time. I wasted everyone's time. And I'm going to regret it more now that I'm running out of time to make up for it with." They sat there like that for a few minutes, foreheads pressed against one another, both silently crying. "I'm scared," Boris whispered, stuttering, his voice shaky. "I believe you." "I don't want to leave yet." "You aren't," Lorraine said back, gently kissing his forehead, "not yet." Just then the front door and Ellen entered, wearing a plain pink dress and smiling from ear to ear, only for that smile to fade the second she saw her parents. Lorraine and Boris looked up at Ellen, who slowly approached them and held out her left hand, showing off a pretty, small ring snugly tucked onto her ring finger. Boris looked at the ring, then at Lorraine and then they both looked back up at Ellen. "I'm getting married," she said, "...what's going on? I hope I didn't interrupt something." *** Carol, seated at her desk in her office while Burt read a book in a chair nearby, groaned as she put her pen down and looked around the office. Just then the door opened and, of all people, Father John Krickett entered, shutting the door behind him. Carol perked right up, sitting up straight again from her slouch and smiling politely as he approached the desk, putting down a folder with papers inside it. "This is from the bank from today," he said, "this is, um, current cost estimates. I need you to go over them, sign off on them, then get them back to me. I really need to start doing furnishings." Carol pulled the folder towards her with her fingertip, nodding. "I can do that," she said, "uh, how are you?" "Today? Uh, hasn't been particularly bad I suppose, all things considered. Hectic, overwhelming at times, but not bad outright, so that's a plus," John said, chuckling, "I mean, I did have to spend some time at the bank, and that's never fun, but you know. It is what it is." "I meant more like with Boris. How are you holding up?" Carol asked, and John looked at her, raising one eyebrow, seemingly confused. "...what do you mean?" he asked, and that's when it dawned on Carol that Boris likely still hadn't said anything to him yet. She started to attempt to backpeddle. "Oh, uh, I'm sorry, I was thinking of something else. Sometime you two were mad at one another. sorry. Old age, father, it really can screw up your cognitive faculties," Carol said, laughing nervously, "you know how it is. One day you've got a photographic memory and the next you can't remember your own name." "...what's my name again?" Burt asked, looking up from his book. "Shut up Burt," Carol snapped at him, uninterested at his humor at this particular moment, before turning her focus back to the priest and adding through a thinly veiled smile, "anyway, please forgive me. I'm not good at remembering what's going on between two people, but yes, I can get this done for you quickly! Definitely! When exactly do you need them by?" "...anytime tomorrow is fine," John said, now suspicious, "...thanks." Father Krickett turned and headed out into the hall, unsure of what exactly to make of the interaction he'd just had, when he thought about stopping at the apartment on his way home that night, just to see if everything was alright. Carol had inadvertently planted a seed of doubt into his mind, and now he had to see it through. *** "It's not too bad," Chrissy said. She, Jenn and Whittle had now entered her bedroom fully through the window and were now seated on the floor as Chrissy explained to them her new living situation back home with her parents. "I mean, they're definitely better than they were, that's for sure," Chrissy said, "they don't yell nearly as much, some days not at all, and when they do start they stop and instead try to talk about things calmly for my benefit. They still have lots of issues, but they've definitely gotten better at managing it, especially in front of me." "That's so good to hear," Whittle said, "we miss you at the apartment." "...why did she come?" Chrissy asked, glancing at Jenn, who just smirked at the question. "I wanted company," Whittle said, "I didn't want to come here alone, in case there was some kind of problem. Not that I think a nun would be of much help in terms of defense, but you never know. She could secretly know karate or something." Chrissy looked at Jenny, eyes a little wide. "DO you know karate?" Chrissy asked, her voice low. "Make me mad and find out," Jenny said, the three girls laughing. Whittle had been blindsided by just how much she'd missed Chrissy once she was no longer a daily staple in her life. Once her room was empty, and she no longer resided within the apartment, Whittle felt liker her life was now so much emptier as a result, and this both surprised and bothered her. On one hand, she was surprised by how attached she'd become, always claiming she didn't want to be a mother but then growing to feel like one. On the other hand, she was bothered by how upsetting this loss actually was. She always knew that at some point Chrissy could leave. Chrissy could be taken home. But it just...it had been so long now, it just seemed like an impossible thing. The reality now sinking in saddened Whittle. "How's Boris?" Chrissy asked, and Whittle shrugged. "I actually haven't talked to him much lately, despite sharing a living space," she said, "he's been kind of off in his own little world lately. If I do get the chance to talk to him, I'll ask him how he's doing, and I'll tell him you asked. So you're doing okay though, right?" Chrissy hesitated, then nodded, smiling warmly, which made Whittle feel better. Which was nice, because her night would not end on a good note. *** Whittle plopped her keys on the table by the door as she and Jenn entered the apartment, giggling to themselves. After meeting with Chrissy, they'd stopped off and had dinner somewhere, then necked for a while in the car before deciding to come back to the apartment, expecting to be alone, and surprised when they flicked on the kitchenette lights only to discover Boris sitting at the table. Boris was sipping from a glass of wine, while Whittle and Jenn came around the table and looked at him. He finally glanced up at them and smiled weakly. "...you never drink wine," Whittle said. "It's true," Boris said, yawning, "but at this point, why not go for everything?" Whittle seated herself slowly, Jenn standing behind her, arms over Whittle's shoulders. "What...what does that mean?" Whittle asked as Boris finished his glass, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and leaned forward a little. "...I need your help, Regina," Boris said, "I...I need your help. I can't go to the hospital, I don't wanna go back to the home, and I need to...I need someone to help me figure out how to approach end of life plans and get my affairs in order and-" "Boris Boris whoa, what...what the hell are you talking about?" Whittle asked. "...I'm dying, Regina," Boris said, watching her put her hand to her mouth, her eyes squinting with sadness, almost instant tears; Boris nodded and continue, "um...I didn't want to tell you, but I need your help. You're the most talented and compassionate person I've ever met involved in the medical field, and right now, I need your expertise and kindness. I'm scared. I need your help." Whittle nodded slowly, hand still over her mouth, tears streaming down her face. She felt Jenny massaging her shoulders, and was so grateful she had come home with her. Staring at his old face, Whittle started to feel like they'd gone so long without loss, and now loss was making a massive comeback. First the stroke, then Chrissy being taken away, now a terminal diagnosis...what would come next? All she knew was that she sat there and she studied his face like it were an old map she was trying to memorize a route on. Like she was afraid she'd never see it again. Because she knew, likely soon... ...she never would. "...is there more wine?" Whittle asked, and Boris, smirking, raised his glass. "Atta girl, drink up, and you, you're a nun, wine's allowed," Boris said, making Jenn smirk as she went to retrieve more glasses for them. It wasn't much, but it would have to do for tonight. Without Boris, Whittle would still be at her old job, and would still be with her old boyfriend, and she wouldn't have become close to Chrissy, she wouldn't have met Sister Jenn and fallen in love, she wouldn't be who she was today without the old man. Amazing, she thought, the way the elderly can alter the youth, even with such a simple act of kindness. And now, after all Boris had given her, inadvertently or otherwise, she intended to repay it.
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"You know that tone people reserve for when something terrible happens?" Boris asked, sitting across from Carol in a little nearby bistro, having lunch. He'd brought her here and then told her to order whatever it was she wanted, his treat, to which she wouldn't refuse; he continued, "that sort of sad but not actually sad tone because they reserve their true sadness for things only pertaining to them? You know, how like when you tell someone your dog died and they just sort of look at you, head cocked to the side, eyebrows doing most of the heavy emotional face lifting, and say something along the lines of 'oh, that's so unfortunate, I'm so sorry!' but you know inside they're just happy it wasn't their dog who died?"
"Are you telling me people aren't capable of sympathy?" Carol asked, lifting her soup spoon to her mouth and sipping broth as she added, "because I don't disagree people do that, but I don't think it's fair to lump everyone in together like that. I know some people are truly sympathetic, empathetic, it just depends on the person." "I just don't wanna be the kind of person who tells someone something and then has them act like they're sorry when I know, in reality, their life won't really change one bit," Boris said, "I want them to genuinely care." Carol looked at Boris, spoon to her lips, before she lowered it cautiously and got a concerned look on her face. "...Boris?" "I have something to tell you," Boris said, "and I'm hoping you're not gonna like it anymore than I did." 1 HOUR EARLIER Boris hated going to the doctor. Not for any particular reason, moreso just because he hated being in large public spaces filled with potentially ill people. He was already old. The last thing he needed was to be specifically susceptible to their sicknesses. Boris turned a page in the magazine he'd picked up from the table nearby and sighed as he shifted in his wheelchair. Hopefully today he'd finally be out of it and back on his feet. He was feeling much better, all things considered, and was starting to get a little frustrated at being stuck sitting down all the time. He didn't know how actual handicapped people do it. They're stronger than he was, though, that much he acknowledged. He glanced at the young lady sitting next to him, in all black with short black hair, looking through a small book. "What are you reading?" Boris asked politely, as she turned to look at him, seeming almost surprised someone was interacting with her. "Oh, it's...it's daily affirmations," she replied, "you...you know, things like, um, like telling myself I am beautiful no matter what, or that I am strong enough to get through this day, or that, if I had a bad day, tomorrow will be better." "Does that actually work?" Boris asked, sounding suspicious. "...I mean, as much as a placebo does," the woman responded, chuckling lightly, "but it's something, you know? And at least I'm the one making the conscious decision daily to try and make my day better, even if it's just by reading a stupid little sentence or proverb." "Having that sort of agency makes you feel like you do have control over your life," Boris said, "I understand that." Finally a door opened and a woman stepped out, telling Boris he could come in. Boris smiled at the woman and said goodbye, plopping the magazine down on the empty chair beside him before rolling himself through the door and following the nurse down the hall. When they reached an examination room, she let him in and told him the doctor would be with him momentarily. Boris sighed and sat in the room alone, looking around at the various tools and instruments hung from the walls or on the countertop. After a minute or two, the door opened again and a youngish man walked inside. "Hey Mr. Wachowski," the doctor said, "I'm Dr. Alan Learner, you can call me Alan or Dr. Learner, either is fine. Whatever you prefer." Dr. Learner was a lean, tall young man who looked to be in his mid thirties maybe. He sat on the little rolling stool and pulled himself across the floor over to Boris's wheelchair and smiled at him. "Is this going to take long?" Boris asked, "I'm supposed to have lunch today with someone." "Oooh, is it romantic?" "No, he's my priest," Boris replied. "Oh," Alan said, "Well now I feel weird. So Boris, have you enjoyed your time in the chair?" "Actually it was surprisingly enjoyable," Boris said, "after walking for 70 something years, it's nice to kind of finally not have to use my legs for a bit. That being said, I'm not looking to extend it and making it a permanent situation. I'm ready to get back on my own two feet. Or someone else's two feet, whatever is easier." Alan chuckled as he plucked the chart on the clipboard off the counter that the nurse had left with him and started thumbing through it, checking each page and nodding at various things. "Then again, it does make people more willing to help me," Boris said, "suddenly people who wouldn't give two shits about me in public are opening doors for me, and that'll be kind of hard to let go of. Sad, isn't it? That you have to be visually disabled in order to get any kind of decency from others? What a shit show this society is." "Uh..." Alan said, nodding, "yeah, no you're not wrong, um, I have a niece who is blind, but because people don't know she's blind they often do shitty things to her without thinking about it, and only once they learn she's blind - which isn't always something you can tell just by looking at someone - they turn their entire attitude around. It's kinda sick. Okay so, looking at this chart, these ex-rays, you're perfectly fit to stand up again. Honestly, you probably could've a few days ago." "Thank god," Boris said, "putting pants on was becoming a problem." "Uh, that being said, I have to ask...were you ever in a car accident?" Alan asked, catching Boris off guard. "...yes, um, yeah. When I was much younger, when my daughter was little, we had a car accident that disabled her legs for a good majority of her life," Boris said, "I came away rather unscathed, all things considered, but yes. Why?" Dr. Learner sighed and set the chart down on the examining table, scratching his forehead and looking at the floor. Boris became nervous immediately. "Um, do you know what Meningioma is?" Dr. Learner asked, "it's a...it's a type of brain tumor. They can often be caused by head trauma, often present in car accidents. They're type of tumor that can develop and grow in the brain and involves the meninges, which are the protective membranes that surround the spinal cord and brain. This means that a meningioma can place pressure on the blood vessels, nerves, and brain tissues and cause potential damage, though typically, in most cases, meningiomas are benign. However, some meningiomas can be malignant and potentially life-threatening." "...why are you telling me this?" Boris asked, his voice shaky. Dr. Learner stood up and put his hands in his coat pockets, pacing around the room. "I wish there were better ways to tell people these sorts of things," he said, "but there isn't. There's no card you can buy for this sort of stuff, you know? Stuff a 50 in it and then just jot down 'hey, you have an inoperable brain tumor that's going to kill you!', which is a shame, because I guarantee you it'd be a fairly lucrative market if they tried it." "What are you saying?" "I'm saying you have an inoperable brain tumor that's going to kill you, sorry I don't a card," Dr. Learner said, standing there, scratching the back of his head, neither one saying a word. Boris stared straight ahead at Alan, uncertain of what his reaction to this kind of news could be. His lip quivered, his eyes wet with tears, he finally swallowed and spoke once more. "Are...are you...sure?" he asked. "I mean we can run more tests," Dr. Learner said, shrugging, "but this thing has been in you for ages, and it's likely what resulted in your stroke. I'm sorry, Mr. Wachowski, I never like telling people these kinds of things. It's not fun. I mean, maybe if they're a dick to me then I can take some slight sick enjoyment out of it, but otherwise. Listen, we'll run some more tests, and we'll see what we can do, but the fact that this has been here so long, has developed as much as it has...the outcome doesn't look pretty." Dr. Learner picked up the chart and sighed before heading for the door. Stopping at it, his hand on the knob, he looked back at Boris. "I guess it's a good thing you're seeing your priest today," he said, joking, and making Boris chuckle a little. Dr. Learner opened the door and exited, leaving a very confused Boris sitting there. He thought back to the accident, and he could remember smashing his head into the steering wheel a number of times during the incident. He couldn't believe that after all these years, this sort of thing would come back to haunt him in the way it seemed like it was. Boris finally, reaching out and grabbing the examination table, pulled himself up from his wheelchair and exhaled deeply. What does one even do when presented with this information? How do you even live the rest of your life, knowing it is in fact the rest of your life? Boris hobbled out of the room and back down the hall, heading back towards the waiting room. As he came through the door, he noticed the young woman he'd been speaking to was gone, but she'd left her little affirmations book on the chair. Boris walked over to it and bent down, picking it up and putting it in his coat pocket. Maybe he could find her and give it back. He then turned and looked at all the little kids in the office, some reading with their parents, some playing with other kids, others clearly very sick. Boris looked at all the younger people, all looking healthy and fresh faced, none even aware of the things coming for them. He headed out of the offices and stumbled into the hallway, then headed down the hall and reached the elevator. As he got inside, he shut the doors, being the only one on board. Boris waited a moment, then stopped the elevator using the emergency button and put his hands against the wall, steadying himself, as he began screaming, finally in tears. Isn't life amazing, he had once said to John, just when you think it can't get worse, it always somehow does. *** "What's going on?" Carol asked, sounding genuinely scared, her voice low. "...I'm dying," Boris said, the words sounding unreal as they escaped his lips, "I have a brain tumor. Apparently I've had it for years. I'm dying, Carol." "...why did you invited me to lunch?" Carol asked, "it was so sudden." "Because I was supposed to have lunch with John," Boris said, wiping his eyes on his sweater sleeve, "but, uh...I felt like I needed to approach that with a different tactic, given the nature of our friendship. But you...you don't pretend to be sad, you don't act like nothing has changed. You acknowledge the elephant in the room. I needed that first and foremost. Not that I don't think John won't, but...his reaction will be far more tactful, and I don't need tactful right now, I need rawness." Carol slowly set her spoon down in her bowl and wiped her mouth with the napkin from her lap. She exhaled and leaned back in her chair, unsure of how to respond to any of this. She could remember the day Boris had moved into the home, the day they had met, and how they'd instantly become friends. It was nice to know that, even at that age, you could still make friends who felt like they'd known you forever, even if they'd only know you for a brief amount of time. And yet...and yet it never seemed like Boris could die. He struck her as immortal, which was ridiculous, because nobody was immortal, and yet he always seemed like someone who would be around indefinitely. "Carol?" Boris asked, finally pulling her back into reality, her eyes snapping at him across the table. "Oh," she replied, putting a hand to her head, "um, I'm sorry. I...I think I drifted off for a moment." "You okay?" Boris asked. "...are you?" Carol responded, almost sounding accusatory, before quickly following up with, "for christ sakes, man, you're gonna die. Doesn't that terrify you? How are you so fucking calm?" "Who the fuck said I'm calm?" Boris asked, his voice cracking, tears rolling down his old face, "what ever gave you the impression that I'm calm? I'm scared fucking shitless right now, Carol. That's why I came to you. Because you're like my oldest friend, and you won't just pretend. You'll make it about you, not about me, and that's why I wanted. That realness." Carol nodded slowly, sitting back up and putting her hand on the table, Boris slowly reaching onto the table and holding it, both of them smiling at one another. "...what am I gonna do without you?" she whispered, her eyes scanning the table. "What you've always done, thrive. You didn't know me for a majority of your life, I think you'll get along just fine," Boris said, "and if all else fails, I promise to come back and haunt you." "They're doing more tests to make sure?" Carol asked. "They are, but he sounded pretty certain," Boris remarked, "either way I'll keep you updated." So they sat there for a bit in silence, hand in hand, old friends, man and woman from two entirely different lives who somehow managed to share a life together, even if only for a little while. It just didn't seem fair, Carol thought, to wait your whole life to find someone who understood you on such a primal level, and then to have to lose them, as if they never belonged in your life to begin with. How was she going to manage? How was anyone who knew him going to manage? She thought back to Polly, and now understood how broken Boris must've been from her death. "...you know," Carol said, "if you're going to die, you could've sprung for a nicer lunch." "Oh, you mean like might as well enjoy the finer things in life before I have no life?" "Exactly, because, don't get me wrong, this soup is fine and all, but some atmosphere wouldn't hurt," Carol said, making Boris truly laugh for the first time in the entire day. He picked his sandwich back up and resumed eating, while she continued eating her soup, neither one saying another word for the duration of the luncheon, but that was perfect. That was as it should be. Intimacy is at its most intimate when you are so comfortable you no longer need words to acknowledge one anothers presence. That, to Carol, was true friendship. So what if he died. Who cared if he died. He wasn't dead now. And now was all that mattered. Carol exited the cafeteria, holding a sandwich half wrapped in plastic she was biting into, with Father Krickett by her side. As they got into the hallway, they stopped and waited as Carol chewed her bite and John unwrapped his own sandwich he'd bought earlier from a gas station on the way here. After a few moments of chewing, Carol finally swallowed her food and exhaled.
"I think, if all goes right, you could be open by next year," Carol said. "Really?" John asked. "I don't see why not," Carol said, "I can have all this paperwork whipped into tip top shape in no time, and other than that, it's just remodeling, right? Which you've already started." Carol and John turned and began heading down the hallway further, each eating as they talked. "Either way," Carol continued, taking another bite, "you also have to consider how you're going to pull people into your space. You can't exactly advertise a church." "That won't be a problem," John said, "I know plenty of people, some from the church I did work at and others not, who have been searching for a place they could practice religion without feeling persecuted by it. That's what this is all about. Creating a safe space for religious queer folk." "That's a very beautiful thought, John," Carol said, and John smiled. Just then, they heard the sound of something racing down the hall behind them, barreling towards them. Carol and John quickly stepped aside as Boris and Burt came speeding down the hallway, each in their own respective wheelchairs. As they skidded to a halt at the end of the hall, Boris threw his hands up in the air in victory. "I told you mine was the better model!" Boris said loudly as Burt rolled himself closer, looking annoyed but laughing. "I suppose I can't argue with the facts," Burt replied. "What are you two doing?" Carol asked, approaching them. "We were comparing who had the better wheelchair," Boris said, "if I'm gonna be stuck in this thing I'm at least gonna have some fun with it." "Alright, this isn't even yours," Carol said, gripping the handles of Burt's chair and wheeling him away, "You took this from Mr. Landerson." "She's not using it, she's in a coma!" Burt shouted as they headed down the hall, Boris and John chuckling as they watched them leave. John started walking beside Boris as they headed for the door that led to the back of the home, into the garden, Boris wheeling himself alongside the priest. "I take it you're feeling better," John said. "I feel like I'm doing remarkably well, all things considered," Boris replied, "but let me tell you John, it was...life changing. I didn't even know what was happening. The last thing I really recall is being in the bathroom, and...and Polly was there, but she was younger. She looked like she did when she was in her twenties, and I was so freaked out. At first I didn't even understand what was going on. I wonder if hallucinating like that is normal." "I think so," Father Krickett said, tearing a piece of his sandwich off and handing it to Boris, who graciously accepted, as he continued, "but you really shouldn't push yourself. I know you're just happy to be alive, and everyone else is too, but you really need to watch yourself for a bit, Boris. At least until you get a final report from the doctor telling you you're all good." As they strolled past Larry's flower garden, where he was busy digging into the soil, John smiled to himself. He took another bite from his sandwich as Boris finished chewing and swallowing the bit that John had given him, before John glanced back down at Boris as they stopped right in front of the gazebo. "When is your meeting for Chrissy?" Father Krickett asked, and Boris sighed, shaking his head. "Tomorrow," he said, "though I'm not sure how well it's going to go over now, what with me in this chair. I look infirm. They won't exactly be pleased about someone so old, in a wheelchair, taking care of a child, regardless of how much help he has." "Well, the wheelchair is temporary," Father Krickett said, "I'm sure it'll go fine. They'll be able to tell how much you both clearly care for her, and that's what's ultimately important. But, as always, if anything goes wrong, my confessional door is always open." "Not until you get that church up and runnin' it ain't," Boris replied, the both of them chuckling. *** "I've never bought furnishings for a church before," Whittle said, standing in the curtain aisle of a department store, running her hands down a very soft mauve curtain, she added, "do churches have curtains?" "Offices," Sister Jenn said, admiring a different set on the opposite side of the aisle right behind Whittle, "I don't particularly want the sun in my office all day. But no, traditionally, one does not adorn stained glass windows with curtains, you aren't wrong." "Isn't it kind of sexist to make the nun do the shopping? I thought this church was supposed to be progressive," Whittle said, grinning over her shoulder at Jenn, who just shook her head, chuckling. Lately, Whittle had been helping Jenn find furniture for the church, despite the church still being a ways away from being fully opened. Regardless, Father Krickett had told them that they should have it ready before its opening anyway. So, since Whittle wasn't working at the moment, and had nothing much to do when Chrissy was at school, she figured she may as well tag along on these errands. "You know," Jenn said, coming to Whittle's side and admiring the curtain she had been looking at, "I...I didn't really want to say this, because I appreciated the help, but I may not even be around to appreciate the outcome. I'm thinking about leaving the church. Nothing's final yet though, depends on a lot of factors. But at least if I do, I'll know I had a hand in making it come true, and making it look good." "Why are you gonna leave?" Whittle asked, dropping the curtain and turning to face Jenn, who pulled her habit off and ran her hands through her wheat blonde hair. "A lot of reasons," Jenn said, "some personal, some not so personal. For one thing, I'm not sure that spending my life in the church is the best way to dedicate myself to the lord. I'd rather find my own way to celebrate my relationship with them. But also, I..." Jenn stopped and bit her lip, looking at her nails before looking back at Whittle. "What?" Whittle asked. "I don't know," Jenn replied, shrugging, "just things like that, I guess." With that, Jenn turned back and headed down the aisle, Whittle jogging to catch up with her. Jenn knew if she never said anything, then she could live in her daydreams forever. The daydreams where she and Whittle were together, and happy. If she said something, and it wasn't reciprocated, that daydream was dead, and right now...well, right now she couldn't risk losing it. *** The following day, Boris, Whittle and Chrissy sat in the hallway of Chrissy's school, waiting to see the headmaster, Kevin Arnold. As they sat there, Whittle running her hands over Boris's wheelchair spokes, she couldn't help but giggle, causing him to look down at her. "What?" he asked. "You put a baseball card in here?" Chrissy asked, "Really?" "It's not a ten speed Boris," Whittle added, laughing. "How dare you, if I want to be stylish, I'm going to," Boris said, just as they heard a pair of shoes passing by them, and looking up - expecting to see Kevin Arnold - they spotted Father Krickett who stopped in front of them, hoisting a bag on his shoulder and a bible under his arm; Boris raised an eyebrow and asked, "what are you doing here?" "Teaching a class," John said, "this isn't technically a catholic school, but they do offer catholic classes. I'm just trying to pay my debt to society. Though, if truth be told, the kids don't seem all that invested in what it is I'm trying to teach them. These godless heathens." "They're children, John," Whittle said. "Yeah, demon children," John said, making Chrissy laugh as he reached out and patted her on the head before walking away, Boris rolling away after him. The two continued down the hall a bit, side by side, as John opened the flap of his bag and jammed his bible inside, saying, "I kid, but it does make me a bit sad to see so many young people outright reject religion instead of taking what parts of it work for them and using it to bring them comfort and guidance. Yes, it has its problems, and yes a lot of it is outright outdated and wrong, but there's still some good in there too." "It must be difficult to be a priest in this day and age, it's true," Boris said, "well, if you ever want to be cool and hip with the kids, you could get yourself a wheelchair like me. Then we could cruise together." "You're almost insufferable in that thing, you do realize that right?" "Almost? Was I not before?" Boris asked, the both of them laughing just as Boris stopped in front of a woman in a light blue suit standing in the hallway, who glanced down at him; he smiled up at her and tipped his hat, saying, "sorry ma'am, didn't mean to bump into you." "You're okay," she replied, smiling politely. That was when Boris realized she was talking to headmaster Kevin Arnold, who looked sour. Boris was confused. Weren't they supposed to have a meeting with him? What was he doing with this woman? Did she work for the school? She was dressed nice, she could be from the schoolboard or something. "Um," Kevin said, stepping past the woman and approaching Boris, kneeling down to eye level, his voice lowering, "I didn't want this to happen, I just hope you know that. I fought for you. But...the law's the law, and they're her legal guardians, and she...they have every right to take her home." Boris was so confused. What was he...then it hit him. Chrissy. He was talking about Chrissy. "Wait, who-" Boris said, as the woman also knelt beside Kevin and smiled weakly. "My name is Marianne Harris, I'm the social work assigned to the case," she said, "you two seem to have done a wonderful job, but her parents have been undergoing therapy, found ways to work together, and are in a much healthier place than they were before. Chrissy doesn't want to go home, but...well, she's a minor, and she doesn't really have a say, especially when the court has deemed her actual guardians competent enough to raise her again." "No, no wait a minute, I thought we were supposed to have a meeting!" Boris shouted, "what happened to the-" "Boris!" a voice screamed from down the hall, echoing off the walls, causing Boris to turn quickly in his wheelchair only to see Whittle standing there as Chrissy clung to her legs while two cops tried to gently pry her from Whittle. Boris felt his heartbeat quicken as he suddenly started racing down the hall, only to watch Chrissy be pulled apart from Chrissy and start to be led away. Suddenly Boris spilled and fell off his chair, his chair rolling onto its side. He looked up only to see Chrissy screaming and kicking as she was carried off, Whittle racing after the cops. Boris felt Marianne and Kevin help him up and back into his chair upright, and as soon as he was wheels up again he took off, racing after them again. As he got closer, he saw John pass him and wrap his arms around Whittle, pulling her back as she shrieked at the top of her lungs, kicking in the air. "You can't take her!" she screamed, "No! You can't just take her! John let me fucking go!" Boris was quickly past them, but his arms were sore, and he knew he had no recourse whatsoever even if he managed to actually catch up with them. He finally stopped, watching Chrissy and the cops disappear around a corner, as Marianna hurriedly walked past him, apologizing quietly again, trying to catch up with them as Kevin stopped, hands in his pockets, as he just shook his head dejectedly, watching their pain multiply. "It's okay," John whispered into Whittle's ear, "just calm down." "Fucking let go of me!" Whittle screamed, forcing her way out of the priests arms and then, turning and approaching Kevin, slapped him across the face, which he didn't respond to, and then Whittle turned and fell face first back against John, sobbing against his outfit. John glanced at Boris as he rubbed Whittle's back, trying to comfort her. In a literal matter of seconds, just like it'd happened so long ago with Ellen, Boris's entire world was ripped apart yet again. But this time there were so many more casualties. *** Sister Jenn was hanging curtains when she heard the front doors open and turned her head, still on the stepladder, only to see Whittle entering the building. Surprised, she quickly dismounted the stepladder and wiped her dress off, as Whittle got closer and stopped, looking at the floor. "Regina?" Jenn asked, "Reggie?" "...they took her," Whittle whispered, "they took her from us. They ripped her right from my arms. I...I couldn't do anything. They just took her." "...what?" Jenn asked, clearly confused. "I need you to tell me something, anything, to make this stop hurting. You're the nun. You're the one with belief," Whittle said, "I need to hear it from someone who genuinely believes in it that this happened for a reason or some bullshit or whatever." "Well," Jenn said, pushing some of her hair from her eyes, "uh...I won't say it happened for a reason, but...sometimes joy is temporary. You know? You were there in her time of need, and she gave you both something you needed. But...Boris has his own daughter, doesn't he? And things have gotten better with them, hasn't it?" "...but what about me?" Whittle asked, "I don't have anything." "Well, yes, you do. You have Boris. You have John and...and myself," Jenn said, "I mean, you came and sought me out specifically because you needed comfort, right? So you do have things. You have all of us." "...you are comforting," Whittle said, "whenever you come by with John, or like yesterday when we went shopping, I do feel comforted. I don't know if it's cause of your ties to the church, or...or what, but, you are comforting. Thank you. My chest hurts so much. I can't...I can't believe they just...ripped her from me. She told me she wished I were her mother, and now her bedroom is empty, and...I can't go back to the apartment. Not tonight. Not right now. Can I just sleep here, in the church?" Jenn laughed, then caught herself and apologized. "Um, well, it's not exactly situated for such a thing," Jenn said, "but I don't think avoiding things is the healthiest way to cope with them, no matter how much they may hurt. After all, from what you've told me about Boris, isn't that what his problem used to be? Maybe he's leading by example now. I don't know your entire life or history, Reggie, but...you're definitely stronger than you might feel right now. I do know that much." "But I'm good at running from things. Ever since I left my boyfriend and moved in with Boris, I've tried so hard to stay detached," Whittle said, sitting on one of the pews, Jenn seating herself beside her, listening as Whittle continued, "I mean...I've tried going on dates but they didn't work out, I tried not to feel like a mom and now I do, and all it's resulted in is hurting me." "You didn't run from this," Jenn said, "you ran to me. Not away." Whittle looked up and their eyes locking. "...um," Whittle said, stammering, "...well, yeah, cause you...I feel safe around you. I went to temple as a little girl, but, you know, I was never gung-ho about it. I never really sought comfort in religion, but...you make me feel safe. Maybe it's just cause you're easy to talk to, I don't know, but...seeing Boris with John has made me a little jealous, I admit, that he has someone that close that he can talk to. I mean, sure, you and I are closer in age than they are, but..." Jenn leaned back on the pew, cupping her hands on her lap, listening. "...I don't know how to say this," Whittle finally said, "especially in a house of God, but-" "You don't have to," Jenn said, sitting up, "I understand. It's why I'm thinking of leaving." "I don't think you should leave, I think you should stay," Whittle said, surprising her as she added, "because you're so good at what you do. You can help so many people the way you helped me. But I also...I don't think you need to live your life by the way the church thought you did. That was the old church. This is new. This is your church. You and John are creating a special place here, for people like yourselves, and so what if you're queer, or whatever, you can love people and still be involved in the church. God wouldn't want your pure dedication, and if he does, well, that's an ego I've yet to understand. But I think God would want you to be happy and comfortable, and not alone or afraid." Jenn felt her breath caught in her chest. Her face flushed. Whittle reached out and put her hand on Jenn's, squeezing it gently. "...I've...uh....never dealt with this before," Whittle said, "and maybe it's the loss speaking right now, but I need to...I need..." Whittle started to cry, and Jenn put her arms around her, pulling her into her and stroking her hair. "i need you," she whispered, and Jenn nodded. "I am here, and so is God," Jenn said. After a few moments of this, Whittle finally pulled back, her eyes soaked with tears, her hair sticking to her face, as she looked at Jenn who just stared back and smiled sweetly. After a moment of looking at her, Whittle leaned in and pressed her lips against Jenn's, surprising her. Jenn quickly felt herself being pushed onto her back on the pew, as Whittle mounted her and started kissing her harder, something Jenn took absolutely no issue with. Sure, maybe a church wasn't exactly the right place to be romantic, but tonight, they each took what they could. Meanwhile, Boris was sitting in the diner, across from John, flipping a container of creamer repeatedly while John looked through the menu. After a few minutes, John looked up and Boris noticed him. "Are you going to stop that?" John asked, grinning. "...it's funny," Boris said, "maybe not in an actual sense but more in a sick irony sort of way, that the last time I was in a situation where a little girl needed my help, it was because her legs were broken, and now here I am. Yet another little girl needs me, and I can't chase after her. The world is a disgusting place." "Everything is beautifully circular," John said, "perhaps just in the worst kinds of ways is all." The waitress stopped by the table and John ordered food for them both, along with some coffee. He had a feeling they might be here well into the night after what happened that afternoon. "I have a doctors appointment in a few days," Boris said, "hopefully get out of this chair and get back to my life." "You aren't locked out of your life cause of the chair," John said, "your daughter was in one, and look at all she managed to accomplish." Boris smiled, nodding. John always knew what to say. "...it was kind of fun racing Burt, I admit," Boris said, "maybe I'll challenge him one more time, race around the courtyard, champion of the world style." "You need to take your joy where you can get it," John said, chuckling. And nobody knew that better than Whittle and Jenn, who had wound up back at Jenn's apartment, barely able to stop kissing as they made their way inside and fell onto the couch, both breathing heavily, hands exploring every inch of one another. Whittle pressed her lips on Jenn's neck, making her gasp as she pulled her dress off over her head quickly and then felt Whittle sit up beneath her, kissing your collarbones, making Jenn's entire body red. As her eyes canned the room, they landed on a painting her mother had given her when she'd first joined the church. It was a painting of Jesus healing the sick, and she smiled. She buried her face in Whittle's hair and was happy knowing that, for at least tonight, she was healing someone as well in a way she needed. It didn't make her a saint. But it at least helped her accept who she was, and that's all that mattered. "Boris?" a voice asked, and Boris rolled his head to the side, his eyesight weak and fuzzy, his breathing shallow. Standing there, next to the stretcher in the back of the ambulance, was Polly. She was younger, like she'd looked in a photo she'd once shown him, and Boris smiled weakly as she touched his hand and smiled back, adding, "Boris, you're gonna be fine."
AN HOUR EARLIER "You feel okay champ?" Father Krickett asked as he and Boris stood in the back of the store while they set up the display and table for the signing. Boris glanced at John, raising an eyebrow. "Did you just call me 'champ'? I know you go by 'Father' but that doesn't mean you get to talk to me like you're my dad," Boris said, making John laugh as Boris brought his water bottle up to his lips and drank. This had been a few weeks in the making, this book signing. Boris's poetry book had actually been doing fairly well, so the next logical step was to have a a book signing. Boris was a curiosity, his publisher claimed; the public always loved when someone of his advanced age managed to come out of the blue and procure a book deal or a film deal or some kind of media. It always, as his publisher had said, 'brought out the hope that even near the end of your life, anything can be achieved'. "You're not nervous are you?" Father Krickett asked, and Boris shook his head. "Naw, I'm fine," Boris said, "I mean, it's a little surreal, certainly, but I'll manage. This is honestly something I've been looking forward to my whole life, something I never once dreamed would actually come true. So yeah, it's strange but it's also exciting." Just then, the woman who had arranged the signing at the bookstore - an intern who worked there - approached; her hair in a ponytail, her shirt tucked into her pants, and holding a clipboard. "Your table is just about set up, if you're ready to start," she said, "My name is Greta and I'll be helping you." "Thank you Greta, I'll be ready momentarily," Boris said, waiting for Greta to leave before glancing at John and saying, "Welp, here we go." Meanwhile, elsewhere in the store, Whittle and Sister Jenn were walking down an aisle, looking at various books on various shelves. Jenn stopped and slipped one of the books from the shelf with her fingertips, admiring the art on the cover until she slid it back into its nook. Whittle reached a magazine rack and pulled it, opening it and flipping through a few pages before stopping. Jenn walked over and joined her, reading from over her shoulder. "I must be old if I now read magazines about how to make an attractive yet usable kitchen," Whittle said, sighing, maybe Jenn chuckle. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with wanting things to be nice," Jenn said, "it's only natural I feel to want your surroundings to reflect who you are as a person and what kind of energy you wish to project into the world." "That sounds suspiciously like new age talk, you better not let the church hear you speak like that," Whittle said, smirking, making Jenn giggle as Whittle continued, turning to a new page, "honestly though, I would love to modernize that kitchen we have. It's not bad by any stretch of the imagination, but I want something better. Something far more...well...modern." "You sure are good with words," Jenn said, making Whittle chuckle. "I'm a nurse, not a writer," Whittle replied. This was the kind of thing Jenn loved. These simple acts of domesticity. Cooking together, shopping together. These were the sorts of things she had begun to crave desperately since meeting Whittle. She'd always liked women, but she'd never acted on those feelings, not even remotely, but for some reason something about Whittle attracted her more than she'd ever been attracted before. Perhaps it was Whittle's interest in her nursing profession, proving she was compassionate, or perhaps it was simply that Whittle was beautiful and funny, but whatever reason it was, Jenn was going crazy imagining a life between them. "Are you proud of Boris?" Jenn asked, and Whittle set the magazine down, looking back at Jenn. "Hmm? Oh, yeah, absolutely. I always knew he was talented, and it's been great to see him finally achieve something with said talent," Whittle remarked as they continued down the aisle; "that being said", she added, "I just hope he doesn't let all this go to his head and inflate his already questionable ego." But Boris was, and Whittle knew this deep down, not the kind to be inflated. He was a fairly humble person, which was partially why she had liked him more than most of the seniors at the home. Boris was, however, feeling particularly special on this day as he seated himself at his table, Father Krickett sitting beside him, and he had every right to be, really. After all, he'd worked hard for this, and now he was appreciating the fruits of his lifelong labor. As he started practicing his signature, John opened one of the books from the table and started reading. "Have you not looked inside it until now?" Boris asked. "No, I've been so busy with getting this church started I haven't had much time to do anything other than that," John replied, "which kills me, because reading is one of my favorite hobbies." "Well, I think you'll find something in there that appeals," Boris said, making John smirk. And just that like, the signing began. People began lining up, some with copies, some without, to have Boris meet them and discuss his work and, in some instances, sign their books. John didn't interfere, he just sat quietly beside them, smiling as he watched Boris appreciate people who appreciated his writing. John flipped through a few pages and read further, impressed at Boris's literary abilities, while Whittle and Jenn came back through an aisle, heading back towards the front of the store, when Jenn stopped and looked at a book on a shelf, her eyes glued to its cover, featuring two women kissing. Her heart skipped a beat, and then skipped again when she realized Whittle was standing next to her. "You find something you like?" Whittle asked, and Jenn snapped her neck to the side, looking at Whittle, her eyes wide. "What?" she asked. Whittle smiled and picked the book up, looking at the back cover. "It sounds wholesome and cute," Whittle said, "but lord I don't read romance. Besides, not exactly my demographic." "Not exactly?" Jenn probed, trying to gain insight into this vague statement. "Well, when I was in college, doing nursing school, I did have this roommate who was also a nurse," Whittle said, sighing, "her name was Kaley, and she was nice, and she was much better than I was when it came to school. One night, at the end of the year before summer break, we were celebrating having both done well that year, which was definitely much more for my benefit considering how much worse I was than her, and we got...I don't know...we didn't sleep together. I've never slept with another woman, and generally, outside of that singular moment I never really have had any interest in doing so, but we definitely kissed and had lots of heavy petting. Course, I was drunk, which I'm sure made it easier too. I think more than anything I was simply appreciate she was there and helping me more than anything else." Jenn's heart fell. It sounded like Whittle could never be remotely romantically in her, and she looked back at the book as Whittle pushed it back onto the shelf. As she did, she turned and glanced at Jenn, who was looking at Whittle, and for one brief moment, Jenn swore she saw something in Whittle's eyes that said she could have a shot. Jenn approached, reaching out to touch Whittle, but just as she did, Burt came around the corner, and Jenn quickly instead just pushed some of Whittle's hair back over her shoulder, as if she'd meant to adjust it the whole time. "What are you doing here?" Whittle asked as she turned to face Burt. "Carol wanted to see Boris's signing, so I tagged along," he said. "Do you even read?" Whittle asked, and Burt looked hurt. "Why did you ask that as if you're assuming I'm illiterate?" he asked, making the girls laugh. Meanwhile, at the front of the store, Carol - who just straight up skipped the line and stopped at the side of the table beside Boris - was also perusing through his book like John had been while Boris signed copies and shook hands. Carol shook her head and scoffed as she shut the book and looked at the cover. "Amazing," she said. "Isn't it?" Boris asked. "No, I meant more that people would want it," Carol said, the both of them chuckling as she set that copy back on the table and, adjusting the purse hanging from her shoulder asked, "so, you sure these people are here because they're impressed, or because you're old and once an artist dies their work increases in value?" "Little column a, column b I'm sure," John said, not even looking up. "I'll have you know I'm a picture of health, thank you very much," Boris said, chuckling at John's joke, "besides, I'm a poet and this is my first published work-" "Yeah but it could be your only published work given your age," Carol said, interrupting. "-so it's not exactly like I'm high on the list of well known writers," Boris said, finishing his sentence, before clearing his throat and standing up, "I'm going to the bathroom real quick, just please let the good people know I will return momentarily." Boris stepped away from the table and headed towards the back of the store, to the bathrooms. As he passed by the shelves, filled to the brim with so much literature it made his heart melt, he couldn't believe he was finally able to have a work of his very own sitting in the very same building, on the very same shelves, next to names he'd admired his whole life. He felt like his life was finally complete. He pushed the bathroom door open and entered the bathroom. He used the facilities, then walked to the sink to wash his hands. As he finished washing his hands, he looked up and, lo and behold, he spotted a woman in the mirror behind him, and quickly turned, face to face with her. "Uh...hello," he said. "I'm so sorry," the woman said, approaching him; she was wearing jeans and a tight blouse, her hair done in one long braid as she added, "I'm so so sorry." "...what?" Boris asked, half laughing out of nervousness." The woman got closer and reached out, putting her hand on his face, and she felt cold as ice. Boris inhaled, surprised at the temperature, and then stumbled against the bathroom counter, trying to keep himself from falling over. The woman stood there and continued looking at him, and it wasn't until he recognized her eye color that he understood. It was Polly, but...but when she was young. How could this be? "Pol...Polly?" he whispered. "It's not your fault Boris," she whispered, "this isn't your fault." And then the bathroom started blurring, everything looking like it was melting. His breathing tightened in his chest and his knees gave out, as he slumped to the floor on his back, Polly kneeling beside him, keeping him company. After a few minutes, he heard the bathroom door open and realized a crowd was forming, and Whittle was right at the front, trying to give him care. Before he knew what was happening, Boris was being lugged outside on a stretcher. As he passed by, he caught a glimpse of Carol, her face twisted into tears, and he could feel John holding his hand the entire way, also crying gently. But the one thing Boris kept noticing was Polly. Polly Polly Polly. Everyfuckingwhere. In every group, every crowd, every spot his eyes managed to land on. As Boris was loaded up in the ambulance and it started speeding down the road, he could feel himself starting to lose consciousness, and it scared him. "Boris?" a voice asked, and Boris rolled his head to the side, his eyesight weak and fuzzy, his breathing shallow. Standing there, next to the stretcher in the back of the ambulance, was Polly. She was younger, like she'd looked in a photo she'd once shown him, and Boris smiled weakly as she touched his hand and smiled back, adding, "Boris, you're gonna be fine." And Boris nodded, and then everything went black. *** John Krickett was pacing in the hospital hallway, nervously chewing his nails. This was yet another moment in a series of recent moments where he wished he could find the rosary beads his ex had given him. After pacing for what felt like hours, he turned and looked at Sister Jenn, Whittle, Burt and Carol sitting in chairs nearby. "Would you sit down, you're making me nervous," Burt said, "Jeez." "...it was a stroke," Carol whispered, "I know it was. I've seen it before." "You have?" Whittle asked, and Carol nodded. "One of the first people I met in the home, her name was Virginia Beams, she had a stroke one day while we were playing a card game," Carol said, "the look on her face, I'll never forget it. It was seared into my memory. That's exactly how Boris looked. I guarantee it. He had a stroke. I just hope it was mild." John finally sat down, and cupped his hands in his lap as he stared at his shoes. He didn't say anything, he just lost himself in thought. Of course this was bound to happen eventually, how could he have been so stupid to think that what they had would last forever? Boris was old. He wasn't ancient, but he was old. He should've expected this sort of thing, and yet it never once crossed his mind. John sighed and ran one hand over his face and then up into his hair. Boris's mortality suddenly had become crystal clear to him, and the thought of him not being here in his life anymore scared the shit out of him. Carol, as well, had never really thought about it, which also didn't make sense. She spent all her time around the home, around death, how could she not expect her closest friend to eventually potentially bite it? Carol had nerves of steel, and yet this rattled her to her very core. And Whittle too. Whittle had never once considered the prospect - just like the others - that one day Boris might meet his end. He just always seemed so lively. So...unready to end. But now, all of them sitting there together, contemplating a life without Boris down the road, they realized how grateful they were to currently have him with them, and how desperately they wanted him to be okay. Suddenly the door opened, and a doctor stepped out, shutting it behind her. She turned to the group as John stood up. "He's going to be okay," she said, "he had a minor stroke, but he's going to be okay. There wasn't any real serious damage, and overall, he should be fresh as a daisy in no time, with some proper care and help." "Thank god," John said. And for the first time in a long time, he really meant that. |
About
Golden Years follows the exploits of a bunch of old people in a retirement home as they try to have fun, relax or come to terms with the soon to be end of their lives. Archives
April 2024
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