Page 5 of Beach B!tch
I parked on the street outside mom's house, grabbed the taco bag and headed inside, using my key to let myself in. She'd lived in this house ever since I was a small boy, making this the house I pictured when I talked about 'home'. I couldn't imagine her moving at this point. She'd worked hard to pay it off, and she was comfortable. She knew all the neighbors and had a five-mile radius of shops she frequented. She always said she didn't need anything else, so even if I wanted to help her move into something bigger, she wouldn't consider it.
"Mom, I'm home," I called out after shutting the front door. "Stefan?"
I heard a rhythmic creaking noise coming down the hallway, then saw my brother's face as he came around the corner. He had a big smile on his face, happy to see me as always. I freaking loved this kid. I noticed his dark, black hair was a little on the shaggy side. I'd need to take him to get it cut this weekend.
"What's up, man?" I asked as I leaned down to do the shoulder clap/hug thing guys do. I'd learned long ago not to treat him as an invalid. Easiest way to piss him off? Treat him like his wheelchair made him different than anyone else.
He'd been in a car accident when he was only six years old. Our father was driving him to soccer practice, and another car came through the intersection, running a red light. Stefan took the brunt of the impact, surviving but losing the ability to move his legs. The spine injury affected his arms quite a bit at the beginning, but now he'd rehabbed enough to get back the use of them. His fine motor control was slightly impaired, but he worked hard at it every day.
"What did you bring for dinner?" I swear, the guy ate like a horse. I'd hate to think about how much he'd eat if he had use of his legs.
"I got tacos. For myself. You gotta scrounge for your own dinner," I teased him.
"Dude. You're cold." His face, so similar to mine, was set in a shocked expression. He was a good actor, but he knew I would never leave him out like that. Big brother had always had a soft spot for him and he knew it.
"I'm running late!" Mom came running into the living room, grabbing her bag. She kissed me on the cheek, then kissed Stefan on the cheek and ran out the door. "I'll be back by ten!" A cloud of her perfume lingered in her wake. Stefan and I smiled and shook our heads. Mom was always late and always in a rush.
"Okay, so tacos followed by therapy, yeah?" I clapped my hands and got the food out of the to-go bag. Stefan wheeled himself over to the table in the kitchen nook. I joined him there and set down the food. We chowed down in mutual silence. I jumped up every so often to grab some salsa or a bottle of water out of the refrigerator for him. He grunted his thanks. I knew it was hard for him to accept help, but given his situation, he didn't have a choice. I didn't expect a thank you, so even the grunt was unnecessary. That's just what brothers did for each other.
After stuffing ourselves on tacos, I cleaned up the mess and then went down the hall to Stefan's room where he was getting ready for our therapy session. He'd reached down and lifted each foot off the wheelchair pedals and placed them on the floor. Then he pulled the levers on the side to release the pedals and swing them out to the side. I stepped up to him placing my arms under his. He pushed up a few inches from the chair using his arms and I lifted him the rest of the way. Then I pivoted and placed him in front of his bed and sat him down.
From there, I helped him stretch out his legs. Even though he couldn't use them, they still had to be stretched and moved around so he kept up good circulation. We moved into a workout using bands and dumbbells to strengthen his arms, then ab exercises, and finishing with seated exercises for his hands. These always frustrated him as his fingers had a tendency to knock small things over. He was a fighter though, always willing to keep trying, even though progress was measured over the years, not weeks.
When he was finished, we went out to the living room again and watched a Lakers game, drinking our way through a six pack of Corona’s. I knew I was helping him with the exercises three times a week but I swear I got more out of it than he did. Every time I visited, it was like a reality check. Here I was, able to do all the things I wanted to do, living on my own, working a job I loved. And my brother had none of that. Yes, he had his own activities with other paraplegics, but it was still a life with lots of limitations. He didn't focus on them, and I didn't either, but it didn't stop me from being so damn appreciative for everything I could do in life.
His handicap had influenced my life for so long, I wasn't sure who I'd be without it. I was only eight when he was in the car accident. My father was banged up but otherwise okay. My brother spent weeks in the hospital and I remember the fights my parents would have: over the money, about the chores piling up, about Stefan's care. About a week after Stefan came home from the hospital, my dad just didn't come home one day. He ran out on his family, leaving my mom to care for us both. I took over the brunt of Stefan's care since mom was working two jobs to keep us fed and a roof over our heads.
From the safe distance of the present I could look back on those days and be thankful for what they taught me and who I'd become because of it. But in the middle of it, when you hear your mom crying in her room at night because of the stress and your brother waking up screaming because of nightmares featuring breaking glass, twisted metal, and excruciating pain, you feel helpless. There wasn't a day of my childhood I don't remember being a struggle. The only thing that kept me together back then was love and hate: love for my mom and brother, hate for my father.
Only the weakest of men walk away from their families when they need him the most. My rage over his actions fueled my obsession for helping the underdog, saving the helpless, fighting for the weaker people in society. I got into a few too many fights in high school when hormones run rampant, but now I reserved my fists for defending those who deserved defending, not for instigating fights. When you know better, you do better. And I was determined to be a good man. One who would never abandon his family.
After the game was over, I helped my brother to bed, did a load of laundry, and got the dishwasher started. Just as I was about to break out the mop, my mom flew through the front door, coming to a quick stop when she saw me.
"I'm here! Sorry, honey, I lost track of time," she said in a low voice, knowing Stefan would be asleep by now.
"No worries, mom. You can stay out as late as you want. I wouldn't leave till you got home, you know that." I drew her in for a hug and kissed the top of her head. The woman worked way too much and then came home to take care of Stefan. Every day for years now. I was happy to stay home and help out.
She squeezed me back and let out a long sigh. "I know, Dean, it's just you have an early shift tomorrow, so you need your sleep."
I chuckled, hearing how she still treated me like a kid that needed reminding to go to bed. "Don't worry, I'll get plenty of sleep." I let her out of my hug and found my keys. "See you Saturday morning?"
"Sure, honey, I look forward to it." She gave me her warm smile and patted my cheek. "Stay out of trouble, huh?"
I indulged her with a smile and shook my head as I headed out the door. I hadn't gotten into a fight in years and she still felt the need to warn me. I guess the stress of having one too many calls from the school principal, and then later on the police, were enough to cause permanent worry.
And in the back of my mind, I worried too. Worried that I'd slip back into being a hothead, or maybe I'd let loose my anger just a little too much one day and cause harm. I didn't want to be that person anymore, but the fierceness I felt when I saw someone weaker being picked on was still present, a permanent part of who I was. I wondered if I'd always struggle to walk that razor-sharp line of defending those who needed defending and going over the deep end by harming someone in a rage. Guess only time would tell.
Once I got home to my apartment back in HB, I showered, climbed into bed naked (it's the only way to sleep) and let my mind wander back to brighter thoughts of Brinley. Here was what I knew: she played volleyball, she knew how to defend herself, and she was sad or lonely. That's about it. Beyond those concrete facts, I also knew she was beautiful; she was strong, she was athletic, she was graceful, she was tough, she wasn't afraid to verbally spar with me, she had the most exotic green eyes I'd ever seen, she smelled like heaven, and those lips with that sweet voice coming out of them were an instant turn-on.
Ah shit, I couldn't be thinking of her lips or her voice right then or I'd have to take another shower, this time a cold one.
The very last thing I knew was this: I had to get to know her better. Somehow, some way, I would strike up a conversation again, and it would go way better than our exchange today.
I should have known better...wishful thinking never worked.
