Tuesday 14 June 2011

Lightswitches and lemonade and ducks, all in a row.

(I still want to dress up like the nurses from Silent Hill, just so you know it's one of the best things, forever and ever.)
She tells me things, I listen well
Drink the wine and save the water
Skin is smooth, I steal a glance
Dragon flies are gliding over
Oh, I'll beg for you
Oh, you know I'll beg for you
I was always good at anticipating what Lochlan needed, even when I couldn't be all that much help at such a young age, running ahead, blonde braids flying out behind me along with the ties on my dress to wait by the garage door for him to catch up so he could push the heavy metal door across the crumbled concrete threshold. Once inside I would reach way up to hit all the light switches along the wall. I turned on the radio and he would smile, half pleased, half confused. The little downy duckling was imprinted thoroughly and no one ever questioned it again. They still don't, if they know what's good for them.

He would unscrew the thermos and pour cold lemonade into the cup, passing it to me first, warning me not to spill it. He would smile wider when I drank it all, holding carefully with two hands, breathless afterward. It was a hot summer. He was always careful to see that I didn't get dehydrated.

I poured him a tall glass of lemonade over ice last evening and put it just above his right hand on the table. He took a long drink and thanked me and I say you're welcome and we are formal with manners and utterly non-verbally familiar with everything else.

Caleb rolls his eyes. He has one eye on the game but we are losing so one eye only. Do you spoon feed him too, Bridget?

If someone wants lemonade in this house, I am happy to fetch it for them.

Like a puppy.

Like a wife.

Except you're not his wife.

I stop. I'm not doing this now, here.

Lochlan reaches over with his good hand and squeezes my fingers and fires a question about the game to PJ, who is still sitting three inches from the front of the television blocking the whole damn thing, weeping softly, wearing his LUONGO 1 jersey and his lucky gloves. PJ's head drops but he doesn't answer. PJ is taking the Stanley Cup a little too seriously and we are going to ignore his dramatics as long as we dare.

By now Jacob would have been looking down into Caleb's face from about kissing distance, letting him know it was time to call it a night and I hate comparisons but Ben has one eye on the game and one on tuning his guitar and he's ignoring the brewing argument. He is satisfied and has stopped yelling now that they have replaced Roberto with Cory in the net only it's too late and the game comes back to Vancouver on Wednesday. He is too tired to wade into the gathering storm this time.

And I don't want the shoving to start. I don't want Caleb to start making his ice-cold observations and Lochlan to start throwing his red-hot punches with one good hand and I don't want any wars in my kitchen since the children are still awake. So far everything PJ says about the game is parroted by Henry, who is enjoying a testosterone-infused month with all the hockey on TV to extend the hockey in real life that has been over for a little while now.

Lochlan feels the tension and refuses to engage. Instead he makes a move to take off his hoodie and I jump up to help him. Caleb shakes his head as I gingerly stretch the cuff over Loch's casted hand.

Better? I ask Lochlan.

Yeah, thanks, peanut. He squeezes my hand once more and then lets go, taking his sweater from me and standing up. He is going to go and do some work, he's still playing catchup from missing so many days. He and I are spending a lot of time sitting together quietly while he heals. He has gone from bad to worse as of yesterday. His hand hurts, his head still hurts, the bruising is downright spectacular and he has weird all-over aches.

I know he will go to his wing, lock the door, take his pain meds and sit up all night trying to outrun the pain and not sleep to keep the nightmares away and he'll throw in the towel around five this morning, unlocking the door and waiting for me to magically appear in the early-dawn light to help him struggle out of his clothes and get him into bed. We tell each other that eventually he will get used to functioning with one hand proficiently and by then his cast will be off but for now he bites his tongue and lets me help him with even the most basic things.

He crawls into his bed and finds a comfortable position and I cover him with the sheet and then the duvet. Just the way he likes them. He is asleep before I can find a goodnight kiss from him in the dark. I open the window a little bit and turn off the lights on my way out. He will sleep until hunger wakes him at lunchtime and then he will eat a grilled cheese sandwich at the counter and then struggle through a shower, complaining that his hair is too long and tangled and call for me repeated to help with ridiculous things again that should come easy.

I tell him to just leave the shampoo open and to use the conditioner for once so that he'll be able to comb his hair instead of just leaving it and he won't listen because then he won't need me so much. He'll struggle into jeans and another hoodie, skipping the t-shirt this time because he has run out of patience for the day and he'll ask what I'm doing and if I can come and spend my time on him instead of banking it for later and I will but only for a little while because I am struggling to keep up still. I turn off eleven million lights a day, it seems as if the switches are always on his left so he just doesn't bother anymore. Little things.

I will bring him a lemonade so he doesn't get dehydrated and get a hug that lasts forever and it makes it all worth the weird feelings of trying to look after him when he has always been the one looking after me.

(For the record, from 1989 until 2003 we could not afford lemonade. Period. There was water and there was milk.)