Chapter 14: Driving Home

Mike

I stared at my phone for a long time. What the hell—no, what the fuck just happened with Teri? She—this—we—. Dana had talked me down from full-on panic, but I was still, shall we say, high anxiety.

A shower and a set of PJs later, I was ready for bed—physically. Mentally, not so much, despite having pushed a marathon. So I reached back to what used to work, and opened my poetry diary:

in covering dark
fogs of unknowing
pressing around
never touching
without being seen
entirely there
and never quite here
yet holding me in

Okay, a little obvious, but yes, it did feel like I was battling through a fog of unknowing. Just getting that clear helped. Enough so, I even managed to go where I already should have: wondering whether Teri was dealing with a similar fog.

I lay awake in the covering dark. Was there something I could do for Teri to make it better, make her feel better? Other than the obvious, and no, phone sex wouldn’t count. But I did reach for my phone—a text to just her: No matter what, I still love you.

I hesitated, unsure why I didn’t just tap send. What was—? Oh, right. I changed I to we, and away it went.

Much better. I managed to fumble the phone onto the nightstand before slipping into the dark of sleep, but it was a near thing.

I dreamed I was pushing and pushing and pushing myself along, Dana beside me, and we were pushing and pushing and pushing after Teri, always behind, never catching up, always pushing and pushing and pushing myself.

Just what I want in a dream—to relive a marathon. Gee, thanks, brain.

After breakfast, while waiting for Dad to finish packing—I was already done, thank you very much, thanks to five years of keeping messes out from under my wheels—I poked at my sonnet-start again. It was a strong beginning, but I still couldn’t take it anywhere. Well, I did jot down two lines, no choice, else thought will drown in doubt and a sympathetic panic symphony, but I didn’t see how they’d fit with the start—or maybe I mean how to turn the start towards them.

I broke off when Dana texted Feel better, love, we’ll talk tonight. Sent to both of us, but clearly meant for Teri. Except, well, she knows I hate fogs of unknowing. She knows I panic. This was for me too.

Suddenly, the room was very dusty. I wiped my eyes. Dang, I missed her. And her. Missed all of us being together.

Which meant that when my Dad came into my room, I was ready to roll on home. Now, please. Get the road trip over with already.

So of course he wanted to talk.

“About?” I asked guardedly. As if there was more than one likely topic.

“The move.”

“Are we definitely moving? I mean, why can’t Dana have the guest room upstairs?”

He halfway winced. “Then we won’t have a guest room—and we will get visitors. Not just Gram and Grandpa-Grandma like now, but also Helen’s mother and sister.”

I considered my father. Weaksauce argument, and he knew it. “Can’t guests use the fold-out couch? Or Dana’s room, with her sleeping either on the couch or in my room? On a cot, I mean, get your mind out of that gutter. There’s plenty of options.”

He let out a breath. “Well, honestly, it’d be nice to have a larger workshop, plus space for a sewing room and maybe a home office as well.”

“So you’re saying you want a bigger house anyway.”

“Yyyeah.” Said like a kid who’s been caught doing something stupid.

Which he had. This whole idea needed poking down, hard. I ignored the door opening behind me. “Are you and I moving even if Helen doesn’t move in?”

Dad hemmed without outright hawing, but it was a close thing. Helen walked over to my suitcase and extended its roller-handle with a click. I focused entirely on Dad. Finally, he said, “Well, she is.”

What. That. I glared at him. Not Helen—not yet. “You’re saying that’s a done deal? That veto you mentioned—that was a lie?”

Dad pulled back. “Well, no—wait, you wouldn’t.” Some significant glare back at me, there.

I said levelly, “Dana and I are still discussing it. It’s not off the table. Yet.”

Helen said softly, “Mike, it wasn’t a lie. If you both object, we will hold off on living together for now.” Dad swiveled to look at her, and she met his gaze until he flinched away. To me, she said, “We would prefer to work through any obstacles you might have, together.”

I forced my jaw to relax. “So would I,” I said. With a jerk, I grabbed my backpack, spun my chair, and whizzed to the door.

Not that I could smoothly open it and slam it behind me. It’s stupid hard to flounce in a wheelchair.

And impossible to flounce from a wheelchair into a van. Just saying.

The attempt did calm me down. A little. Enough that I was no longer reconsidering my lifestyle decision to forgo walking. (That’s a joke—you know that, right? Seriously, some people are so sensitive.)

That still left the three-plus hours riding home with ‘rentals I didn’t exactly want to be around just then. Once strapped in, I put on headphones, closed my eyes, and shuffled a Mando-pop playlist. Not the best training for hearing the spoken tones, but it at least gives a feel for vowel sounds.

And listening hard helped me to Not Think about the problems of Teri—either of them.

One rest-stop and a full tank of gas later, I was barely speaking with Dad—he had attempted, both stops, to talk about the move. I didn’t actually bite his head off. Just an ear. Was barely enough snack to tide me over till lunch.

It had to be the move that had Teri so cranky—it sure was making me cranky.

We stopped at a Denny’s in Laramie. I refused help getting out, and by the time I arrived in the lobby he and Helen were already seated, which was fine by me.

Two kids were running in circles, and the older, a boy about dunno maybe six, looped in front of me, and I barely stopped in time. “Careful there, big fella,” I told him.

He looked back at me blankly. His little sister, dressed like him in western wear complete with cowboy boots, shrank behind him—decidedly away from me.

“Don’t worry,” I told them with a smile, “it’s not contagious.” I knuckle-rapped my near-side wheel.

The boy wrinkled his nose in perplexity. The girl peaked around him, scowling. “What’s con-tay-dus mean?”

I think she was actually asking her brother, but I answered, “It means you can’t catch having your legs not work from someone else, the way you can a cold.”

The boy said, “You should watch where you’re rolling.”

A young woman coming out of the restroom heard that, gasped, and grabbed the children away from my vicinity.

I ignored her hard. I nodded at the boy, “I should—and you should watch where you’re running.”

The woman gasped again. “You stay away, you.”

So much for ignoring her. I looked her in the face, even though she wouldn’t meet my gaze. “As I was just telling your son, ma’am, it’s not contagious. Have a nice day, you two,” and with a nod to the children, I zoomed past them to the booth where Dad and Helen sat.

It had a long open end perfect for a wheelchair. As I set my brakes, I glanced at Helen—she was looking at me with, um, let’s call it concern. I forestalled her with, “I know what you’re going to say.”