Page 60 of Colt
We head out of the restaurant, and I breathe in the warm air. It’s beautiful, this place. It’s not going to be too hard being home more. Being in Oregon. I do love it here.
“You okay?” She bumps up beside me, and her palm presses to mine, and before I can think about it, I’m lacing my fingers through hers, and we are holding hands.
Neither of us speaks, and we walk to the car together like that. I open her door for her, managing to do all that while still walking on crutches. It is possible. I feel better. More in control of my body. As the wound in my midsection heals, my ability to maneuver gets easier. I don’t need to rely on my still-injured leg quite as much. I don’t default to putting weight on that side of my body. But mainly, I just like feeling functional. For her. With her. I like not feeling like I need everything done for me.
I know what she said is true. That I would feel differently if it were somebody else. That I wouldn’t think that they only had value if their body went back to the way it had always been. Of course I wouldn’t think that. But I just feel differently about myself. And I hate the idea that I might have to change my thinking. I don’t want to change. I get into the car, and buckle myself in.
“I might have to change.” It’s not even a fully formed thought, and I said it out loud to her.
“Your clothes? Or philosophically.”
“Philosophically. I don’t want to.”
“I don’t know that anybody wants to.”
“Yeah. It’s just hard.”
“I know. I mean, I don’t know, because it’s not something that really happened to me. But my mom – I hate to keep comparing you, it’s just I see parallels. After she did treatment the first time, she always got tired a little bit easier. It just changed things for her. And there were always new medications and new treatments, and they had responses in her body. Some affected her terribly, and some made it so she could pretty much go about her daily life. It all just depended on where she was in the remission cycle. But I loved her just the same. No matter what. We all did. And sometimes we had to change what we did. What we didn’t do. But it didn’t change how we felt about her.”
“I get that. I do.” Except all my relationships feel more tentative than that, and I have a feeling that’s on me. I have a feeling that’s about my own stuff. My own baggage. What I feel and don’t feel in those relationships.
“I’m just saying. Having to face down change is kind of a terrible thing. But eventually, you’re just living it. And everything will fall into place.”
I hope that’s true. I really do.
I take a nap when we get home, because it’s actually been kind of a long, weird day. And when I get up, she’s in the kitchen putting a pot of pasta on the stovetop.
“I’ll get to making that salad.”
I fetch a cutting board, and a knife. I find a good way to brace myself against the counter, and start chopping vegetables methodically.
“I really don’t want you to lose your balance while you’re holding that knife.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “If there’s one thing I’m pretty confident with… Well, it’s sex. But if there’s another thing, it’s that I do know my way around the kitchen.”
“I guess you do.” Her forehead creases. “That’s kind of a weird skill for you to have.”
I notice she ignores my comment about sex. “Not really. I used to cook when I was a kid.”
“You did?”
“Oh, when my mom was getting her real estate business up and running she would have really long days. I got good at cooking. I got good at… Making things easier for her.”
I hear my own childhood trauma coming out of my mouth again. But is it really trauma if you had a wonderful parent? Is it really trauma if it taught you life skills that are very valuable? Everyone should know how to cook for themselves. I’m an athlete, so knowing how to make healthy meals has been an asset. So yeah. It’s not like it’s wasted effort. It’s not like it’s something that did me long-term harm.
“I’m good,” I say.
“You seem like it.” I don’t think she means that.
“I like cooking for her. I still do.”
“Well, I appreciate you cooking for me.”
She’s clearly decided to let me off the hook with this one. I add rosemary croissant croutons, some chevre, Craisins, a cucumber, and artichoke hearts to the salad. I toss it in balsamic vinaigrette, and by the time I’m done with that, the noodles are through cooking, and her vegetable sauce is done marrying ingredients. “Let’s eat on the patio.”
I’m usually a beer guy, but this seems like a good time for wine, which she seems content with.
“Remember when we took you out to the Gold Valley Saloon for your birthday?” I ask.
