Jessica
The days pass in a numb haze.
I spend as much time at Gramps’ bedside as possible, watching the painfully slow recovery and his obvious frustration at struggling with the most basic things. It breaks my heart to see it, but I sit there and tell him it’s all going to be okay anyway, that he’ll beat this.
I joke about how he’ll be wheeling down the halls of the care home in no time, terrorizing the nurses, and that they better watch out when he gets back to his feet properly, the way he always said he would - and try to smile, to tease him, to forget how painful it is for both of us that he’s been set so far back.
I have to believe that he’s still as determined about that as he always was. I have to believe it’s going to happen.
He does improve over those first few days. He starts to sit up, to move and try to do things for himself - he has to be reminded about little things, like how to feed himself, but they do start coming back. It leaves me almost holding my breath, hoping, waiting to see how far it will go - but however much I hope, there’s no denying that this time, it’s far worse.
His body is slightly slack and weakened on one side but that’s okay - he can still move it and I know the physiotherapy will help. Maybe even enough that he could walk again, the way he wants.
That’s not what worries me.
No, it’s when it starts becoming obvious that there’s something really wrong with his speech. I expect the confusion and exhaustion to wear off after that first evening, but once that does…he still struggles to say anything. He tries - I can see him trying - but it seems to take a long time for his mouth to move and when it finally does, the words come out slow and garbled, a largely incoherent mumble that’s painful to hear.
He has trouble swallowing too and the doctors say it’s not uncommon, but damn it, I can still see him in there. His eyes bright and frustrated, that keen mind unable to express itself the way he always has. This is the part that’s important to him.
He gets support for it - physiotherapists and speech therapists and all sorts of people. I sign the forms without thinking about the bills or whether we can afford it. If I have to take out a loan for this, I’ll do it. All that’s important is that he can talk properly again - that he can communicate the way he wants to.
But they say it will be a long, slow process and I’m scared for him. I spend hours at his bedside, trying to learn, trying to understand the mumbled conversation he’s making and it hurts that I find it so hard.
He’s my grandfather. I should know what he’s saying.
I struggle to understand, to interpret and talk for him, to work out what he wants and needs - to make conversation and keep him entertained while he’s there, filling in the blanks for him with what I know he would have said. I answer the questions I know he’d want to ask - tell him about myself, lie and say I’m doing fine and looking after myself too, even if I can barely remember whether I had lunch that day or what on earth I might have had in it. I tell him that Pan is fine - the one thing that is true, since he’ll never forget to pester me for food, at least - and what the neighbors are up to, even though I don’t know and I’m largely just guessing for his benefit, because he’d want to know.
I help him with the exercises his speech therapist has given him and even though I know it kind of pisses him off to have me there helping him, I do it anyway, too desperate for him to start getting better not to be involved myself.
And I think it all might be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
After a few days, he’s discharged from the hospital and returns to the care home - and I know I have to go back to work. I can’t leave it much longer without some kind of explanation or conversation, and I can’t deal with that right now. I’ve only gotten away with this much because Kenneth…well, because Kenneth.
I hope that maybe going back could be a good thing - it might distract me, at least for a little bit each day - but it doesn’t work out that way.
I spend every moment just wishing I could be back with Gramps, talking to him, helping him, letting him know that I’m right there for him. I leave as soon as I can every day and spend every evening with him, eating dinner at the care home with him, but it never seems like enough.
All I can think about is him being alone during the day, scared and frustrated and without anyone who really understands exactly who he is, what he’s thinking and feeling. They’re great at the care home, but they’re not me.
I can’t stop worrying about him.
The only good thing, if you could call it that, is that I’m not thinking about Kenneth anymore - I’m not worrying about the situation between us at work or struggling with all those inappropriate thoughts and desires.
I can’t.
The last thing I can feel right now is any of that. In fact, I’m not sure I feel anything at all.
Every last part of my energy is directed towards Gramps and his recovery right now.
Every moment I’m with him, I’m as positive and encouraging and supportive as I can be - to get him through this. And then whenever I’m not with him, I refuse to let myself feel at all - I can’t think about it, can’t open myself to that floodgate of emotion again - in case I never recover from it and can’t be there for him the way he needs right now.
There’s too much fear hiding in me, waiting. Too much terror that something is going to happen - that he’ll get even worse and I’ll be left all alone again.
I can’t face that feeling. So I don’t let myself feel anything at all.
The numb state I’ve sunken into suits me just fine at the moment.
I go through the work I need to get done automatically each day, the tasks and routine of it so familiar that I don’t have to think about it. Everything that needs to seems to get done, but the moment I leave the office I’m not sure I could tell you anything about what happened that day. It passes in a blur, too much of my mind counting down the time until I can leave and get back to Gramps’ side - hoping that when I get there, this time, somehow it will all be better.
Waiting for that moment of significant improvement, scared that it’s not going to come - and secretly knowing that’s not how any of it works. It’s incremental. Small steps, and he’ll get there.
In a month’s time, you’ll look back and be amazed at the progress. You will.
I repeat it to myself again and again, wanting so much to believe that.
I’m distracted enough by that, that when Kenneth asks me to come into his office in the middle of the week, I don’t think anything of it.
I follow him, only raising an eyebrow when he gestures for me to shut the door behind me. I’m not interested enough to ask, though, as he leans back against his desk and folds his arms and I wait for whatever question he’s got for me. Usually by now I’d be sifting through a mental list of things he might want to know, but not today. Not this week. It’s easier just to wait, and then respond.
“I’m going to have to go back to New York next week. Emergency trip, to soothe some of our investors’ nerves about this lawsuit—I’m sure you’ve seen the emails?” He quirks an eyebrow at me and I nod. I’ve seen some of the back-and-forth about that, but I haven’t been involved - he’s very clearly wanted to respond to ExVenture’s investors directly. “Yes, well, it’s inconvenient but we’ve got a court date now so the whole thing should be cleared up by the end of next month, I just need to give these guys enough reassurance that they’re willing to hold out until—”
He pauses, seeming to catch himself as he notices my blank expression, shaking his head and refocusing on what he actually wants me to do. It’s not until he does that that I notice the way he seems to keep shifting between that business-like attitude and just talking to me about what’s going on.
“—Anyway, you don’t need to know any of that. I need you to organize that trip - I’ll send you a list of the guys I need to see. It’s short notice and they’re important people, so if we have to resort to lunch or dinner meetings, that’s fine, but I think they’re going to want to make time for it.” He continues in a brisk tone and I nod along, making mental notes with the half-attention I’m paying. “Oh, and make the same arrangements as you did last time for the hotel and rooms - that worked out well - and I’d like to take you and Abbie with me again this time. I’m assuming that won’t be a problem?”
He says it so casually, completely out of nowhere, that it takes a moment before that comment hits me.
“Wait…what?” I stare at him, my focus sharpening for the first time since I got in this morning.
He can’t be serious…
“It worked well last time.” He shrugs. “Abbie had a good time, and the trip is last minute enough that—”
“What?” I shake my head, my heart stuttering at the idea. “No. Sorry, no. I can’t do that.”
I can’t. No way.
How can he even just suggest it like that?!
I can’t be away from Gramps for a week. Not now. I can’t just pack up my life and—
“Why not? You and Abbie seemed to have a good time together.” He frowns, looking carefully at me before continuing more quietly. “You don’t need to worry about…what happened last time. Nothing like that will happen again - it’s all forgotten, right? It didn’t matter.”
There’s something in his voice as he says that last part, but I can barely hear him. The thunder in my ears is building too quickly, anger and fear and upset overtaking me in a rush.
How can he just expect me to do that? To leave everything on a moment’s notice? That was never in the job description. Never.
“I—what—you think it’s all about you?!” I sputter at him, staring in disbelief as my hands curl into and out of fists at my sides. “No, damn you, it’s nothing to do with that kiss. You think I don’t have anything else going on - that I can just pack up and leave anytime you like? I’ve got a life here, damn it. I’ve got other things to think about. I can’t disappear across country for a week. No. I’m not going with you.”
Right now, I don’t care if it’s my job on the line. It’s a fucking unreasonable request - hell, it wasn’t even a request. Expectation. And he thinks he can just…
Self-centered prick.
I take a deep breath, and to my horror it catches, sounding more like a hiccup - the threat of a sob right behind it. My eyes are burning but I refuse to blink, not wanting to risk it.
“Jessica…”
“I can’t.” I shake my head hard, the firm words I’d intended coming out more like a quiet breath. My vision feels dark at the edges, threatening to narrow around me, and I just know I have to get out of there before my loose self-control breaks entirely. “I’ll make the rest of the arrangements for you.”
I spin on my heel, almost rushing to the door - but somehow, he gets there first, his hand holding it closed as he turns to face me.
“Jessica.” He says again, all the businesslike detachment gone from his voice. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”
I shake my head again, breathing harder than I’d like and blood roaring in my ears again. I just wish he’d let me go. All I want is to disappear and not have those intent eyes on me, making me start to think things…feel things…
“I can’t leave Springfield.” I say again, the words almost like a mantra in my head.
I don’t care what he says, I’m not going. Not now.
“Okay.” He says, agreeing with an ease that’s totally at odds with his earlier attitude. “Then you won’t leave Springfield. Just tell me what’s going on. Please. What’s wrong, Jessica?”
I make the mistake of glancing up at him, too surprised by his simple acceptance to stop myself before his gaze catches mine, the obvious concern there making it impossible to look away.
The care I see in his expression steals my breath, working its way under all my defenses almost before I realize what’s happening, somehow reaching the part of me that I’ve closed off from everything else and bringing the words out of me.
“My grandfather had a stroke last Friday.”
It comes out numb and quiet and something in me deflates, the acknowledgment feeling like a defeat of some kind.
I haven’t been able to say that to anyone - those words have been something I’ve fiercely defended and protected and kept to myself because that’s the only way I seem able to keep it together.
It’s my grandfather. My family. My life.
All mine to deal with.
Or…maybe it’s because if I don’t say it, it can’t be real and I might wake up from the whole surreal nightmare at any moment.
I don’t know, but I can feel something give way inside me as I say it.
“Oh, damn.” Kenneth mutters softly from the side of me - and then suddenly he’s gathering me up in his arms.
I’m stiff, my body not working out what to do and my mind still twisted and confused as his arms come around me, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. His head drops so his chin rests against my cheek, his mouth just above my ear.
“I’m so sorry, Jessica.”
Something about his voice, or his touch, or something he’s doing goes right through me, sending cracks through all my hardened defenses and making me tremble slightly.
“Kenneth…”
I’m not sure about this. I’m not sure I can do it - being this close to him, having him care—any of it.
“Just for a moment, Jessica.” He whispers against my ear, as if he knows that.
I can feel the hesitation in me, the fear, everything I’ve tried to keep to myself combined with all the confused emotions I feel towards him - but the warmth of his strong presence around me overwhelms all of that.
I feel myself sinking into him before I’ve worked any of it out in my head, my body knowing exactly what I need and want right now. He reacts to it, too, pulling me closer and tighter in against him until I’m resting my head on his shoulder, my arms tucked in between us so that it feels like he’s all around me.
Warm. Comforting. Protective.
I blink my eyes closed, feeling the tears on the edges of my lashes, but they don’t fall. I think I’ve cried myself out sometime over the last few days - I’m too tired for another emotional storm. I just feel sad…and exhausted.
Right here…right now…letting Kenneth hold me, some of the tightly wound tension finally starts seeping out of me, the wave of fatigue making me almost dizzy as I tuck closer against him. Wishing I could stay like this forever - just go to sleep against him and let that simple comfort take away everything I’m dealing with right now.
I can’t, I know that, but…
Just for a moment.
He doesn’t say anything else, one hand running up and down my back and his lips hovering so close to my temple that I think he’s going to kiss me there. He doesn’t, but I imagine his lips against me a dozen times. Too many. I imagine giving into him and letting him take care of me the way I think he might, if I let him.
I don’t know how long we stay like that. It occurs to me briefly that someone might see us, that it’s probably not a good idea, but I can’t bring myself to care.
I finally make myself step back, though, scared that if I stay in his arms for too long, I won’t be able to give them up at all. I feel empty the moment I do, my body aching with a fierce longing where he was touching me only moments before, wanting that warmth back - and I have to resist the urge to wrap my arms around myself.
“What can I do, Jessica?” He asks gently. “Do you want to take some time off—”
“No.” I don’t let myself listen, already shaking my head.
I don’t want that. I refuse to admit it but right now, we need the money - and I don’t want any special treatment. It’s enough that I’ve already had a few days off, I don’t want to take this too far. I don’t want to think about just why he seems so concerned.
“Are you sure? I mean it, I can manage here and if you need the time—”
“I’m okay.” I say, and I’m not entirely sure I mean it, but I try not to make it as dismissive as my response to all the other ‘are you okay?’s I’ve received. Somehow, he deserves better than that. I take a deep breath and make myself nod. “We’re doing okay, it’s just…it’s going to take some time. And I need to be around for him.”
“Of course. Don’t worry about New York - I’ll sort something out - and I’m sorry I sprung it all on you. I…had no idea.”
He takes another look at me, even if I still can’t meet his eyes, and I hear him sigh before his hand comes up under my chin, tilting it up towards him.
“At least go home for a bit, Jessica.” He murmurs, the command obvious in his tone. “Get a little rest. You look like you need that right now.”
I want to object, to resist again, but his voice is authoritative, sinking in at a deeper level and compelling the exhaustion that suddenly washes over me.
He’s right. I haven’t been able to sleep properly for days and I feel worn out and ragged in every possible sense. I’m not going to be any use to anyone if this continues - and for the first time since I heard about the stroke, I actually think I might be able to close my eyes and find something slightly more peaceful.
The feeling of his arms still lingering around you. Being held and warm and comforted.
I know that’s what’s prompted it, but right now that doesn’t matter. Anything to keep the worry at bay for just a few hours.
“Okay.” I finally agree, nodding.
His hand drops to my shoulder, squeezing it.
“You’ll call me if there’s anything you need? Anything at all?”
I nod again, but I know that I won’t. I don’t even let myself think about the offer.
I can’t. Not right now.
There’s too much unsaid.
And far too much behind it.