Over the next week, I visit Stanley in the hospital every day. I help him eat when he’s not feeling well enough to sit up. I keep the damp cloth on his brow moistened, and when his pain medication is getting low, I badger the nurses to refill it. I sit with him through blood draws and CAT scans.
The nurses no longer object to my presence. I have been to Stanley’s house and washed up and cleaned what clothes I have.
Through it all, he remains withdrawn. He answers questions with monosyllables, always in that mechanical voice. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s still angry at me or because he’s medicated most of the time. Or maybe it’s depression. He’s stuck in this place he hates, enduring a barrage of uncomfortable and invasive tests, and it will be months before his injuries heal. Of course he’s depressed.
He feels so far away. But he’s not, I remind myself. He’s right here. And he needs me.
Things can never go back to the way they were; I’m aware of that. But right now, neither of us has anyone else to rely on.
By the time they release Stanley, the bulky casts on his legs have been replaced with wrappings and braces, but he still can’t walk, not even with crutches.
I drive him home. As soon as we’re away from the hospital, there’s a noticeable shift in his demeanor. Though still quiet, he seems more awake, more alert.
Back at Stanley’s house, I retrieve a wheelchair from the garage and park it in the living room. As I help him into it, he sighs. “I was hoping to never need this stupid thing again.”
“It’s just temporary.”
“Yeah, I know. Mostly I’m just glad to be out of the hospital. I can’t wait to take a real bath.”
In his current condition, that will be difficult. Still, I hesitate a few seconds before asking, “Do you want help.”
His shoulders tense. A flush rises into his cheeks, and the muscles of his throat constrict as he swallows. “Just get me into the tub and bring me a washcloth. I’ll take it from there.”
Lowering him into the tub takes a lot of maneuvering, even with the metal rails already in place. He has some mobility in his left arm now, at least; the sling from his first encounter with TJ is gone. Still, he winces when he tries to pull his shirt off.
“I’ll help with your clothes,” I say.
“That’s okay.”
“The doctor said you shouldn’t move around too much yet.” I reach out.
He catches my wrist. “I can handle it.”
“I want to help.” I start to tug his shirt up, and his whole body goes rigid.
“Alvie, stop!”
I freeze.
His gaze is downcast, his cheeks burning, his breathing rapid. “Please,” he whispers. “Let me do this on my own.”
A burning, prickling lump fills my throat. I swallow. “I know you’re angry at me. But there’s no sense in injuring yourself just because—”
“It’s not about that.”
In a flash, I remember the motel room, the way he seemed so reluctant to take off his clothes. Even now, he doesn’t want me to see him. I want to tell him that his scars don’t matter, but I know that words won’t make a difference. “What if I kept my eyes closed while I washed you.”
A pause. “You could do that?”
“Yes. I won’t look. I promise.”
“And you’ll stop if I ask you to?”
“I will.” I’m surprised he even needs to ask.
Slowly, he nods.
I close my eyes and reach down to unbutton his shirt. Without sight, it’s tricky; my hand comes down on his face. I pat my way down his neck until I find the first button and undo it. After that, it’s easier. My fingertips graze something rough and puckered on his chest, and his breath hisses between his teeth, as if the touch burns.
“Sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay.”
I start to tug the shirt off, being careful to touch only cloth, not skin. It takes a few minutes.
“Hang on,” Stanley says. “Let me—okay, now.”
The shirt comes off. My hands move down to unbutton his slacks, and he twitches. His breathing quickens as I tug the pants down a little, then a little more. This would be much easier if he were standing, but he’s not in any condition to stand. The process takes a few minutes, but I manage to remove the slacks. I set them carefully aside, then pull off his socks. My palm brushes against his leg; I feel the cool metal and smooth leather of the brace, the rough linen of the bandage beneath.
Soft, shuddering breaths echo through the silence. Aside from the bandages and braces on his legs, he’s naked, every inch of him exposed.
I dunk the cloth in a bucket of warm, soapy water, wring it out, and lay it against his chest. A small sigh escapes his throat.
“Let me know if the water is too cold.”
“It’s fine.”
Taking care not to touch his skin directly, I wash him. His breathing sounds very loud in the quiet as I run the cloth over his chest, his shoulders, and abdomen.
My fingers brush against his cheek, and I feel the heat in his skin. “Are you embarrassed,” I ask.
“I just feel really helpless, like this.”
“Is that a bad thing.”
“I don’t know. Not exactly, I guess.”
I rub the cloth over his inner thighs. His muscles tense. “Maybe I’d better do that.”
He takes the cloth from me and quickly washes off the rest of himself. “Can you get me a clean set of clothes?” he asks.
I retrieve a fresh T-shirt and cotton drawstring pants from his bedroom. Still without looking directly at him, I help him get dressed. It’s easier than undressing him; I deliberately chose loose clothes that I could slide on without much difficulty.
“Okay, you can look now.”
I do. He’s flushed, breathing a little more rapidly than normal. My gaze strays to his groin, and sure enough, his pants are tented. “You have an erection,” I blurt out. He gulps, but this time, he doesn’t apologize. He just stares straight at me.
It doesn’t mean much, I tell myself. Males are hardwired to respond to certain stimuli. Even so, I can’t deny that it feels good to know that his body still wants me, at least.
I avert my eyes, suddenly self-conscious. “I didn’t look,” I tell him. “When I was washing you, I mean. I wanted to. But I didn’t.”
He lets out a tiny chuckle. “Well, I guess I can’t blame you for being tempted. I mean . . . all this.” He gestures down at his thin body, his legs, still bound up in wrappings and braces. He gives me a lopsided smile. It’s strained, and his face is pale and drawn, but it’s the first smile I’ve seen out of him in days.
My gaze lingers on his lips. I think about the night I spent in his bed, the warmth of those lips against mine. And for a moment, I want to.
Then his earlier words echo in my head: Leave me alone. A dull ache fills my chest. Why would Stanley want a kiss from the person who betrayed him?
“Is there anything else you need,” I ask. “I could get us some takeout.” I’d offer to cook him dinner, but putting bread in the toaster is about the closest I ever get to cooking.
He chews his lower lip. “Thanks, but I’m pretty tired. Can you help me into bed?”
I maneuver him into the chair and wheel him into the bedroom. Once he’s settled in bed with the covers pulled up to his chest and a glass of water on the nightstand, I start to walk out.
“Where are you going?” he calls.
“To the couch. That’s where I’ve been sleeping.” Using his bed would have felt presumptuous, even if he wasn’t there.
“Oh.” I have the sense he’s about to say something else—or maybe he expects me to say something. But what, I’m not sure. He looks away. “Good night, Alvie.”
“Good night.” I walk out, closing the door behind me. I lean against the wall.
The only reason I’m here now is because I have no other place to go, and because Stanley’s still too badly hurt to function on his own. I can’t let myself forget that. But I’m glad he let me wash him—that I was able to do something for him, that he trusted me at least that much. Even if he still refuses to let me see him naked.
He’s self-conscious about the scars; I know that’s part of it. But I can’t shake the feeling there’s something more.