I blink against the sunbeam slicing through a gap in the blinds, landing square on my face. Black silk sheets. The wall papered in matte purple. A framed picture showing two bodies intertwined in shadow. Next to it, a pencil sketch of a nude woman. I pause—his ex? A full laundry basket in the corner. Beside a glossy black wardrobe, a stack of throw pillows.
I let my head sink back into the remaining pillow on my side of the bed and close my eyes. Late twenties, I'm thinking. Reasonably successful. Charming. Probably surprised I came home with him last night, but not overly so. Single for... a year?
I lie still a bit longer, wondering if it's worth staying for breakfast. Probably not—coffee at best, maybe some fat-free yogurt if I'm lucky. I sigh and prop myself up on my elbow, fishing for my messenger bag on the floor beside the bed.
When I make out the time on my phone display, I bolt upright. Shit! I'm going to be late!
In record time I'm half-dressed in the hallway, throwing on my jacket and briefly debating whether I can really get away without a shower. That's when the bedroom door opens.
"Hey, you're already up." He stands there shirtless, and suddenly I remember why I wanted him so badly. Those abs definitely required the annihilation of copious amounts of fat-free yogurt.
"I have to go," I say hastily, bending down to grab my shoes as he approaches.
"Will I see you again?" he asks casually, leaning his hip against the wall. I feel his gaze on me and don't look up.
"Bad timing," I answer breathlessly while slipping into my ankle boots. "See, I'm a polar researcher and I got the call this morning that the passage through the pack ice is clear again. We ship out in an hour."
His jaw drops. I shrug apologetically and flash him a wide smile as I rush to the door.
"I'm really sorry. See you in six months, okay? Don't wait up." I wink at him before slipping out faster than his synapses can fire.
As I run across the street, a window opens in his apartment above me. "Should I meet you at the harbor?" he calls down.
Good Lord.
Even if I were looking for something serious and he weren't still hung up on his ex, this wouldn't have worked out between us.
I wave without turning around, ignoring his question. Maybe he'll consult a map sometime. Then he'd realize the nearest seaport is 180 miles from here.
In the fluorescent-lit conference room of the assistance service, I drop into the last empty chair. "Sorry I'm late," I mumble, completely out of breath, trying inconspicuously to smooth my disheveled hair.
My supervisor Margarete's resigned look meets me over her reading glasses. "Good of you to make it, Laura," she says, then absently shuffles through the papers spread before her on the conference table.
"Schedule changes this week," my colleague Sarah whispers to me. A wet wipe. I throw her a grateful look and quickly dab at my eyes to remove the smudged mascara.
"Well, then..." For a moment Margarete looks like she's lost her train of thought, but then she seems to find what she was looking for in her chaos of papers. "In any case, good that Laura's here now," Margarete says, eyeing me with mild severity. "We need to talk about David. He requested you for his next doctor's appointment."
At the mention of David's name, I wake up a little. "What kind of appointment?"
Margarete consults her documents. "An appointment with the orthopedist," she informs me. "It's the follow-up from his last hip surgery. We need to adjust the shifts so you can accompany him."
"Okay," I say, nodding. I remember—David told me about this.
Margarete's pen hovers over her stack of papers. "Can you take it?"
"Sure," I say, pulling out my phone with the work schedule. "When exactly is the appointment?"
A brief discussion follows. In the end, Sarah takes my late shift Wednesday with my youngest client Joshua, and Margarete covers for Sarah with an elderly couple.
"Thanks," I say to Sarah as we pack our things to head to today's assignments. "I hope you're better than I am at slaughtering zombies."
Joshua is twelve and the PlayStation is his best friend.
Sarah groans. "Oh no. Well, at least it’s a change from card games. Deodorant?"
Maybe I should have showered after all. The expedition ship surely would have waited that long for me.
The workday passes uneventfully. A diaper explosion with a bedridden patient and a paramedic call for an epileptic. Routine, basically. My acquaintance from last night tries to reach me twice before I block the number during a quick smoke break. I have enough to do without dealing with guys who don't understand the "one" before "night stand."
On Wednesday I arrive a little earlier than necessary.
"He barely ate." My colleague Ina, who had the morning shift with David. As always, she sounds personally wounded and like it's somehow my fault.
I shrug, not particularly surprised. David's doctor regularly puts high-calorie drinks on David's meal plan, hoping he'll gain weight. The problem is simply that David burns calories faster than he can swallow them. Still, David and I have tried every commercially available drink and they all taste absolutely disgusting. The overcooked food from the delivery service isn't exactly fine dining, but at least it doesn't ruin your appetite for days.
Most importantly, though, David is certainly not in any condition today to worry about something as annoying as food intake.
"Hey David, all good?" I ask as I enter the living room.
David sits in his electric wheelchair, still at the dining table with a plate in front of him piled high like for an athlete before an ultramarathon. Typical Ina. She believes David will gain weight just from looking at a full plate, or at least be motivated to eat more. I believe it puts him off even more.
When I enter, David's head jerks slightly to the side, his lips twist. Something like a smile.
"Hi... Laura..." he greets me, blinking. As always, his vowels stretch out. His left hand grips the spoon a little tighter as he speaks, his right lifts trembling, involuntarily.
I step toward him. "Done eating, huh?" At his barely perceptible nod, I take the spoon from his hand, untie the strings of the humiliating plastic bib at his neck, and carry everything along with the full plate into the kitchen, where I wordlessly dispose of the cold lunch in the trash.
When I return, there's something in David's expression, but he's struggling with the words. I sit down beside him and take his left hand, squeezing it gently. His fingers twitch slightly.
"Are you ready?" I ask quietly.
He nods again, more vigorously this time, his lips pressed together.
"It's okay," I say, though he hasn't said anything. He doesn't need to—I can see the apprehension flickering in his eyes.
This isn't the first situation of this kind we've experienced together. A year ago, I sat at his hospital bedside when he woke from anesthesia after the hip surgery whose results we're discussing today. Back then I'd just started working at the assistance service; he was one of my first clients. We'd only known each other a few months. When he opened his eyes, I told him stories about doctors who accidentally sewed dentures or earrings into surgical wounds. Until he was halfway capable of speaking again. After that, it was his turn to tell me even more outrageous nonsense until the aftereffects of the anesthesia wore off.
David makes a sound like a laugh. "Thir... teen," he says, his voice strained.
"Uh oh!" I exclaim in mock seriousness. "The unlucky number! We'll have to drink to that."
David rolls his eyes. I know as well as he does that he can't consume alcohol if he doesn't want to experience the various side effects of his medications in completely unanticipated ways.
I don't ask whether this hip surgery was his 13th operation or whether the next one will be—the message came through anyway. It's enough. I give his left hand a final squeeze, place it on the armrest, and jump up.
"Anyway, I have a surprise for you," I say, grinning. "So hurry up a bit, we need to get going."
David moves his left hand to the joystick at the end of the armrest and the wheelchair whirs to life. "Really?" he asks while concentrating on not driving the wheelchair into the table as he follows me. His left hand executes the commands jerkily as always, but the wheelchair moves surprisingly smoothly, thanks to some kind of newfangled smoothing filters. At least that's what David once explained to me about his wheelchair's control system.
"Disney... land?" he asks in the hallway, eyes sparkling.
I grin to myself. Very good, I've managed to distract him somewhat. It doesn't help if he's excessively nervous—it won't change the results. Besides, it unnecessarily increases his spasticity.
At the coat rack I take David's jacket from the hook and offer it to him. He raises his left arm and I guide the sleeve over it, place his hand back on the armrest, and support him lightly as he leans forward so I can pull the jacket across his back.
"Hmm," I say, smiling. "Nah, the Make-a-Wish budget didn't stretch that far, sorry. It's only a puppet show."
David laughs again and his right arm slips from my grasp. I wait until it's no longer pressed against his torso before I grasp his wrist and try to pull the sleeve over it. A brief tug-of-war ensues until David's uncooperative arm is satisfactorily inside the jacket.
"You'll see," I say with a wink. "Besides, there are actually two surprises."
"Two?"
I slip his sneakers over his socked feet, place them back on the footrests, and tie them neatly. Then David steers the wheelchair out the door I'm holding open, into the mustard-yellow hallway, and stops in front of the elevator.
Before I pull the door shut behind us, I check that I have everything. David's documents, the second set of house keys that stays with the assistance service, my own jacket, and my messenger bag.
"Yep." I press the button next to the elevator door. We hear the elevator somewhere below us rattling into motion. "The first surprise is that I snagged the van." I look at David expectantly and am not disappointed. He smiles.
"You're... amazing," he slurs, his head jerking back against the headrest and his right leg lifting slightly. The van means we don't have to take the much more complicated route by bus and subway to the specialty clinic, which often means we get stranded in front of a broken elevator, have to squeeze into overcrowded cars, or even wait for the next bus because the only wheelchair space is already occupied.
"Who did you... bribe?" David asks with a barely perceptible smirk.
That's closer to the truth than David might think. The assistance service's van is almost always booked if you don't give weeks' notice, this time included. I was able to persuade Markus, who coordinates the van trips, to schedule an unforeseen and non-postponable maintenance for the vehicle today. The actual 'maintenance' only lasted as long as it took us to find a time when we'd go for coffee together, and then I drove the van to David's apartment.
I don't tell David any of this, though.
“Super powers," I say. The rattling of the elevator approaches, stops, and with a clattering 'ding' the sliding doors open. I step into the tiny box first, then David parks the wheelchair directly in front of my shins. He looks up at me, his head moving in slight jerks.
"And the... second?"
"Hmm?" I ask. I've just checked my phone. We're good on time, especially since we're taking the van. Markus has already sent me a text. He's looking forward to our date and reminds me to return the van on time.
I press the button for the ground floor and the sliding doors close again with a rattle. Every time we leave the apartment and use the elevator, I hope it's still functioning by the end of the day. So far, fortunately, the only thing that's happened is that David couldn't leave the building because the elevator was broken. At least that way he's not stranded on the street, but I can imagine it's still infinitely frustrating to be stuck in your own apartment.
'Obviously' I type a message to Markus. 'But you know... doctor's offices. Always packed.' I send a monkey emoji after it. So very sorry.
"The second... mnggg." The last part dissolves into mumbling as the elevator lurches into motion and David's torso is thrown slightly forward. His head falls to his chest. He laboriously straightens up again, his left fist pressed against his thigh. His questioning gaze finds mine.
"Oh, the second surprise?" I put my phone away. "I'm not telling, otherwise it wouldn't be a surprise."
David's face contorts, more than usual. I think it's supposed to represent pouting and I have to laugh.
I've parked the van directly in front of the building, right on the two-lane street. The blue sticker with the wheelchair symbol is unmistakable. In fact, I've also parked the van in front of movie theaters or concert halls and never gotten a ticket. I unlock the back door, open it, and press a button on a control panel dangling from the ceiling on a cable to lower the ramp. On the busy street, cars zoom narrowly past the van, but when the ramp is all the way down and I step in front of it, they swerve out earlier.
"All ready?"
David makes an affirmative sound, steers the wheelchair down the lowered curb, onto the street, and then purposefully past me up the ramp. I hop in after him and raise the ramp again before securing the wheelchair with several straps anchored to the floor. Finally, I strap David in too.
"Is this okay?" I ask, tugging a bit at the chest strap that seems to run uncomfortably close to David's neck. The van is used by many different people with different wheelchairs, so the built-in system is neither particularly well-adjusted to each individual nor particularly easy to operate. Markus enthusiastically explained the strap system to me again earlier. In all detail.
David shrugs slightly, his eyes directed into the distance again. I understand that the strap is the least of his problems right now. In his thoughts, he's already at the clinic, at the upcoming examination. Patting his shoulder, I squeeze past him to the driver's seat.
Let me know if you want me to expand this story!
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