The Mothers(38)

“You sweet on anyone?” Bill asked him once. “Big football guy. I know the girls got to be chasing you.”

Luke shrugged, reshuffling the deck of cards. He’d thought about calling Nadia once or twice but what would he say? That the only thing he did every day was learn to walk? How simple exercises, like knee lifts or leg curls, made him groan? How he spent hours in a wheelchair, playing poker with old men to pass the time? One evening, he was in the middle of dealing out another hand when the elevator doors opened and out stepped Aubrey Evans.

“Hi,” she said. “The Mothers asked me to drop this off.”

She held up a knitted blanket, a bundle of pink and green and silver that was startlingly bright against the white walls. He led Aubrey to his room. She didn’t say anything as he pushed his walker slowly down the hall, staggering with each step. He collapsed on his bed, embarrassed by how winded he was. Aubrey folded the blanket neatly and set it on the end of his bed. He’d never been alone with her before. He knew her from church, vaguely—she seemed nice and religious in a way that had always bored him. But people seemed to like her. His mother. Nadia, according to all the pictures he’d seen of them together on Facebook.

“I didn’t know you were still in town,” he said.

“I’m taking classes,” she said. “At Palomar. And working.”

“Where?”

“Donut Touch.” She frowned when he snorted. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he said. “It’s just a dumb name.”

She smiled. “If you really wanted a donut, you wouldn’t care what it’s called.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a donut. Even before he’d existed on plastic hospital food, he had converted back to a football diet, good, clean eating, grilled chicken and vegetables at every meal. A lot of good that’d done him. He pushed himself to his feet, holding on to the walker for balance.

“Do you still talk to Nadia Turner?” he asked.

“All the time,” she said.

“Is she still in Russia?”

“What?” Aubrey laughed, her nose scrunching up. “She was never in Russia.”

“Really?”

“England. France, for a little bit.” She paused. “Wanna see pictures?”

He did but he shook his head, staring at the floor. “Nah,” he said. “I just never knew anyone who went to Russia.”

“Me either,” Aubrey said. “But she goes everywhere. Anywhere she wants to be, she goes.”

He felt stupid for the time he’d spent imagining Nadia in Russia, wearing furry hats in front of colorful buildings shaped like tops. But if anyone he knew went, it would be her. How had he ever thought she would stay in town with him and raise their baby?

Aubrey dug in her purse for her keys. She was leaving and he felt a sudden need to stop her.

“We pray for you every Sunday,” she said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“You could bring me a donut,” he said.

—

THE NEXT DAY, Aubrey brought him a red velvet donut moist and sweet enough, he could forgive the stupid name. Other things she later brought him: a new deck of playing cards, chewing gum, a book called Why Do Christians Suffer? that he didn’t read but kept on the nightstand so she’d see it when she visited, a daily planner where he could keep track of his progress, a bundle of get well cards from Upper Room, and a tank top that said Beast Mode that he wore during his exercises. She was pretty in a quiet way he grew to like. Nadia’s beauty bulldozed him but Aubrey’s prettiness was like a tea candle, a warm flicker. When she visited him after work, she looked cute in her uniform, a black polo shirt with a pink donut on the front. She fiddled with the matching visor as she stepped off the elevator, her curly ponytail bobbing. She smelled sweet, like frosting.

“I used to have one of those joints,” he said once, pointing at her purity ring.

“Really?”

“I was like thirteen. But my hand outgrew it, so my dad had to saw it off me.”

“You’re joking.”

He held up his hand. On his right ring finger, a light brown scar.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I ended up fucking a girl later that year. I would’ve done it anyway, the ring just would’ve made me feel bad.”

“It’s not about feeling bad,” she said. “At least not for me.”

“Then what is it? Like a married-to-Jesus thing?”

“It just reminds me.”

“Of what?”

“That I can be clean,” she said.

She was a good woman. The more time he spent around her, the more he realized how rarely he thought anybody else was actually good. Nice, maybe, but niceness was something anyone could be, whether they meant it or not. But goodness was another thing altogether. He was wary, at first, disarmed by Aubrey’s kindness. What could she want from him? Everyone wanted something, but what could she possibly hope to gain from a man whose whole world had constricted to four hallways? Sometimes they played cards in his room, dipping their hands into a paper bag filled with donut holes. Other times, she wheeled him outside and they sat, watching cars come and go in the parking lot. He never asked her about Nadia although he wanted to—he would feel exposed even mentioning her again. Besides, like Cherry said, why would he want to keep hearing how happy Nadia was? How big and exciting and fulfilling a life she led. He wasn’t a big man anymore. He wouldn’t be famous, like he’d dreamed as a kid, teaching himself to sign his name in all curved letters so he would be prepared to autograph a football. He would live a small life, and instead of depressing him, the thought became comforting. For the first time, he no longer felt trapped. Instead, he felt safe.