Didi
Around eight thirty I peer into Dodds’s room to see how he’s doing. He’s awake and lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.
I knock on his door. “Hey,” I say.
He looks my way briefly then goes back to staring at the ceiling.
“Can I come in?” I ask.
He shrugs.
I walk into the room trying not to notice the sheets drawn flat against the mattress where his legs should be. He heaves up onto his elbows and wriggles himself into a sitting position, wincing as he does.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He gives me a flat-eyed stare. “It hurts,” he says. “It’s like where my legs should be I can still feel them and it fucking hurts. All the time.”
I nod. He’s describing phantom limb syndrome. “Is there anything they can give you?”
He shakes his head bitterly. “I’m on more drugs than a fucking junkie. I’m taking so many pills I don’t even know what half of them are for anymore.”
I don’t know what to say. I wanted to speak to my dad but I didn’t get the chance, and now he’s gone away for a few nights to a conference. I glance around the room, spotting the photograph on his nightstand of the blond girl. Dodds really needs a visitor. I wonder who she is and why she doesn’t visit.
“You feel like watching The Shawshank Redemption?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “Okay,” he says.
“Great,” I say. “It starts at nine. We’re watching in Walker’s room.”
I turn to go but then remember something. “I brought you something,” I say, suddenly having second thoughts about the wisdom of it, but now it’s too late to back down and he’s looking at me expectantly.
“Um, it’s this,” I say, handing him a booklet I got from the employment counselor.
“What is it?” he asks, turning it over.
“It’s a book about possible career routes.”
He doesn’t say anything and I cringe inwardly. Stupid idea. This is not what he wants to be thinking about. I just thought it might help give him something to focus on or think about other than unicorns with blasphemous phrases coming out their butts.
He nods and flicks through the pages, then looks up at me and smiles. “Thanks,” he says.
Is he being genuine? It’s hard to tell. “I know it’s probably the last thing you want to think about, but—”
“No,” he says. “It’s good.” He holds up the book. “I’ll be sure to read it.”
“Okay,” I say. “Um, I guess I’ll see you later.”
When I walk out of the room I bump straight into Sanchez and Valentina. Valentina throws her arms around me, and after she’s done hugging me she pulls back and holds me by the tops of my arms. “So tell me all about that gorgeous boyfriend of yours! Is it true? Are you really dating Zac Ridgemont? Oh my God!”
She’s practically bouncing off the walls with excitement. Behind her Sanchez rolls his eyes.
“No, I’m not dating him,” I say. “We broke up.”
“Oh,” says Valentina, giving me a sympathetic look. She pats my arm.
“I broke up with him,” I clarify, to Valentina’s openmouthed astonishment.
“You did?” asks Sanchez, grinning ear to ear.
“Yeah,” I say, feeling my face starting to get hot. Does Sanchez know anything about Walker and me? No, he can’t. There’s nothing to know.
“That’s great,” Sanchez says, still grinning. “Does Walker know?”
Valentina elbows him in the ribs and he lets out a yelp. Oh God, he does know.
“Hey,” I say, trying to change the subject, “I’ve been meaning to ask, do you know how we can get some visitors for Dodds?”
“Leave it to me,” Valentina says with a knowing smile. “I’ll organize something.”
I think about arguing with her—what if she invites her cousin Angela? That might make things worse, not better—I can only imagine the artwork that a visit from her might inspire in him. But what can I say?
“Okay,” I say and make to move off. “Oh, by the way, we’re watching The Shawshank Redemption in a little while. You want to watch with us?”
“Who’s us?” Sanchez asks.
“Walker,” I say and catch his answering smirk. “And Dodds,” I add quickly.
“Nah, we’re good,” he says. “You have fun, though.” He winks at me and I can hear him and Valentina talking in loud whispers as they walk off.
Walker’s door is ajar, and when I nudge it open I catch him stripping off a T-shirt and rummaging through his drawer for a new one. One glimpse of his body and my legs turn to jello. Oh God. What was I thinking agreeing to this? Thank God I invited Dodds along, otherwise it would feel way too much like a date.
I’m glad too that I went home earlier and changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt so I don’t feel like I’m dressed up. I have to say it’s one of the benefits of Walker not being able to see—I no longer care so much what I’m wearing or what I look like and it’s a huge relief.
He turns as he pulls on his T-shirt and freezes as if he’s sensed me standing there, watching him.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey,” he answers, and my stomach flutters when I hear the softness in his voice. I only hear it when he speaks to me. With everyone else he’s either polite and distant or just plain gruff. “I’m not sure what time it is,” he says, pulling the T-shirt on over his head.
“It’s nearly nine,” I tell him. “Am I too early?”
He shakes his head, trying to hide his smile. “No. Come on in. Where do you want to sit? I tried to make the bed.”
I glance around. There’s the bed, which he has indeed tried hard to make, and then there’s a chair over by the window.
“I invited Dodds,” I tell him, trying to work out where the wheelchair will fit.
Disappointment flares across Walker’s face but he quickly tamps it down. “Great,” he says.
He’s a terrible liar but it makes me smile all the same.
“Oh. Hello.”
I turn around. A woman in white scrubs is standing behind me. I’ve never seen her before.
“Hi,” I say.
“Are you Lieutenant Walker’s girlfriend?” she asks with a warm smile.
“Er . . .” I say, wondering who she is.
“That’s great,” she cuts in before I can answer. “You stay as long as you like,” she tells me, patting me on the arm. “There are no visiting hours.”
“I know,” I say, then, glancing over her shoulder, ask, “Where’s José?”
“I don’t know,” she says, shrugging. “I’m just agency staff. They needed cover for the night shift.” She smiles. “I’d better just go and get started on the paperwork.” She bustles off and I turn to look at Walker, who’s scratching behind one ear and wearing an amused smile on his face.
“So,” I say. “I brought popcorn.” Before I can think about what I’m doing, I cross to the bed and sit on the edge. The butterflies in my stomach erupt into a frenzied dance.
Walker is staring right at me and it’s slightly disconcerting because it seems like he can see me. He seems to be contemplating something, but then he gives a small shrug and walks toward the bed, feeling for the edge with his hands. He sits down on the other side of me and I put the popcorn between us as a barrier—not a very substantial barrier but one I feel is necessary, because every other barrier appears to have already collapsed. Or rather, been nuked into oblivion.
I can’t stop staring at Walker’s arms. And his lips. And his eyes. In fact, I just can’t stop staring at him full stop, and the thoughts I’m having are in no way professional. I keep wondering what it would be like to be held by him, to be kissed by him. I keep thinking about the bed we’re on and what it would feel like to lie down next to him, and then I start thinking about what it would be like to lie beneath him and feel his weight on top of me, pressing me down, and . . . I need to stop this train of thought. Thank God, right at that moment, Dodds arrives, the whir of his wheelchair interrupting my not-so-pure train of thought.
“Hi,” I say extra loudly, leaping off the bed as though I’m on fire.
“Hey,” Dodds says, barely making eye contact with either of us. He steers into the room and parks himself just in front of the bed.
I switch on the TV, feeling flustered even though nothing has happened, and when I sit back down, leaning against the headboard, and Walker follows suit on his side of the bed, I cannot focus on the movie. At all. For the first fifteen minutes all I can think about is Walker stretched out beside me and his bare arm lying just inches from mine. He can’t see the movie, and I wonder if he’s listening to it or if, like me, he’s distracted. When I glance over at him I can see he’s still wearing that small smile, which can’t be anything to do with the film because when I do focus on it for a brief second, it doesn’t seem either amusing or happy.
“Popcorn?” I ask, nudging the bowl in Walker’s direction. He takes some and then I get up and give the bowl to Dodds, who takes not just a handful but the whole bowl.
I return to the bed empty-handed, barrierless. When I sit down, Walker moves an inch over on his side as though making room for me. I feel my resolve weakening. I think about how nice it would be to rest my head on his shoulder.
No, I tell myself firmly, stop it.
For the next hour I barely notice what’s happening on-screen because all I’m aware of is the pulsing electricity that’s building between Walker and me. I feel like if either of us moved an inch a spark would ignite out of thin air. His hand rests on the bed barely half an inch from mine. It wouldn’t take much to brush his hand or his arm with my fingertips, but I hold back.
Before the end of the movie, just at the scene when the old man who’s been released from prison after serving forty years kills himself, Dodds drops the popcorn bowl to the ground and starts wheeling himself out of the room. I jump off the bed.
“Dodds, where are you going?”
“I’ve had enough,” he says, jerking his head toward the television. “I’m going to bed.”
“Okay,” I say, resting my hand on his shoulder. “Night.”
He nods and then he’s gone.
I turn back and see that Walker is half-sitting, half standing, with a frown on his face. “You want to keep watching?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, though that’s not strictly true. I’m not watching the movie at all.
I sit back down beside him. Walker swings his legs up onto the bed, and I swing mine up too, and this time we are touching, just the edges of our knees. Both of us could move, but neither of us does. There’s just this tiny bit of contact, and it’s enough to set me alight. My whole body starts to thrum.
Every time I turn my head to look at him, he smiles as if he can see me doing it. When I notice, I start doing it more to see if I can catch him out, but he smiles every time.
“How do you know?” I ask him.
“Know what?”
“Know when I’m looking at you.”
He shrugs. “I just sense it.” He pauses. “I can always sense you. Where you are in a room, what your mood is, when you’re looking at me. Sometimes I guess at what you’re thinking or doing.”
“You do?”
He nods.
My heart is beating like a wild thing, bouncing around in my chest. I glance at his forearm and have to stop myself from stroking my hand down it. Then I glance up at his lips. “What am I thinking right now?” I whisper.
He turns his head to face me. His eyes look smoky gray in the light from the television. “I’d like to think you’re thinking about what it would be like if we kissed. Because that’s all I’m thinking about.”
I draw in a breath and hold it.
He carries on staring at me, his lips slightly parted in a smile. Shit. I’ve never wanted to kiss anyone so much in my life.
“Am I right?” he asks.
“Yes,” I whisper in a croaky voice.
He turns back to face the television. I let out my breath slowly. I turn back to the television too, but all I can think about is what he just said. His hand nudges closer across the bed. I move my own hand to meet his. Our fingertips brush—that’s all. But it feels like I’ve just leaped across a line, smashing every last boundary that lay in the way.