After the End(97)

I sit in the armchair by the window in the room Max made for me, and look out across the rooftops. I pull my aching feet up beneath me, and rest my head against the side of the chair. My book lies on the table next to me, a folded hospital appointment letter marking my page, but for once I don’t feel like reading.

Beside my chair, where it has stayed untouched for the last three years, is my bag of knitting. I reach for it and pull it onto my lap, pausing a moment before I open it. When I do, I have to close my eyes and focus on breathing in and then out, in and then out. The smell of the hospital, real or imagined—I can’t tell; of antibac gel, and rubber-soled shoes, and laundered nurse’s scrubs. The beep beep beep of Dylan’s machines, the sticky feeling on my fingers from the electrodes on his chest. My eyes still shut, I put my hand in the bag and feel the soft knitted squares. I imagine the finished blanket draped across the end of the “big-boy bed” we’d planned for when Dylan was three. I feel the pain in my chest and instead of fighting it I let it bud and bloom and die back, and when it is gone I open my eyes, and I feel lighter. I watch the birds on the rooftops for a while, and then I take out my knitting needles, with the half-finished square dangling midrow, and I start to knit.





forty-five





Max


   2018


Hey, big man, how’s it going? Missed you last week.”

Eight-year-old Michael is lying outstretched in the water, float rings around his neck, pelvis, arms, and legs. His therapist is gently guiding Michael’s limbs through a range of movements designed to improve his muscle and joint function, the water providing natural resistance.

“He had a cold, so he stayed in school. Better safe than sorry, right?”

Like several others in the Challenge Swim Club, Michael lives in a residential school in Chicago, and is brought to the pool once a week in a specially adapted minibus. Some of the kids—including Madison, who is right now splashing her mother with unbridled glee on her face—live at home, and come with their parents. In addition to the volunteers, like Blair and me, there are physical therapists and specialist water therapists, and sports club staff to operate the hoists. The place is packed, and the noise level extraordinary—like a kiddie play center with the volume turned up.

I talk to Michael so his therapist can focus on the exercises. Although Michael loves being in the water, he hates being splashed on his face, and will respond by holding his breath until his lips turn blue. My job is to watch out for the splashers and steer them gently away, which is easier said than done in a pool full of excited kids.

After the session I hang around for Blair, who emerges with hair still wet from the shower. She pulls on a purple bobble hat as we walk to the car park together. “Did you see the Tribune’s write-up of the new pizzeria at Clark and Diversey?” I say. “Might be one for Saturday’s lunch?” Our last lunch, a fortnight ago, was at a Latin fusion bar in the West Loop that had more than deserved the scathing review dished out by the newspaper’s restaurant critic. We were as kind as we could be with our TripAdvisor review.

“I was gonna talk to you about that, as it happens.”

“Will you have the kids? Bring them too, if you want.”

“No, they’re still going to their dad’s, but . . .” She takes her keys from her purse. “I wondered if you wanted to have dinner instead of lunch.” She looks at me and lifts her chin slightly. “Someplace nice.”

“Someplace nice,” I echo, taking a moment to catch up. I take in her raised chin, the color in her cheeks. “Oh. You mean . . . like a date?”

Blair laughs. “Yes, Max. Like a date. An actual date. You and me. What do you say?”

Despite the biting March winds, I feel suddenly too hot. I want to try to explain, but all I can think of is It’s not you, it’s me, and even I’m not enough of a dick to say that.

“Gotcha.” Blair drops her head and holds up a hand, flat palm toward me. “No need to spell it out.” Then she looks back up, and she laughs again, and maybe she really doesn’t care, or perhaps she’s a great actress, but either way there’s nothing in her expression that suggests it matters.

“Pizza, then?” I raise my voice as she walks to her car. “Apparently ‘the menu is as uninspired as the setting’ so it should be a blast.”

“I’ll let you know!” She waves a cheery goodbye and drives off, and I stand for a second, wishing I could have the last two minutes again, then realizing I still wouldn’t know what to say.

Blair’s busy on Saturday. She lets me know via text, complete with kisses and a smiley face that tell me she’s not mad at me. I go to the pizza place with Mom, who is bemused by the dull menu and by the brick walls the owners have inexplicably painted brown. I think how Blair and I would have laughed about it, how we would have ordered different things, so we could experience the full range of terribleness. I feel in limbo Saturday night, and wake up the next day leaden and unsettled, wanting the day over, the week over. I go for a run, crossing the park on Fullerton, then swinging right to head south on the lakefront, million-dollar penthouses on my right-hand side, and the lake as big as an ocean to my left. The wind’s up and the water’s gray, waves hitting the jetties and crashing over the beach to where the lifeguards stand. I drop down to the trail and find my rhythm, still restless when I hit the Loop.