“Yeah, almost. That’s the difference.”
I take the ball in my hand and stare at it, almost willing for it to squeeze itself instead of having to do it myself. My fingers slowly fold in around the ball, but they barely touch it before springing open again, sweat from the effort already dripping into my eyes.
Why is this so hard? And why does it have to be my arms, my hands… my livelihood. No, not my livelihood, my life. The thought that’s always lingering in the back of my brain, that I’ll never be able to go back to playing the cello like I used to do, bores into my skull and I can barely focus on anything else. I take a breath, and try to bend my fingers in again, the stiffness making it feel like trying to manipulate concrete poles. A strike of pain flashes up my wrist and the ball rolls out of my palm and onto the floor.
“Fuck!”
I lean over, to reach for it, my arm locking at the elbow and I can’t help but growl in pain.
“Goddamn it to hell!” I’m breathless from the effort of squeezing a ball and bending over to pick something up. Not to mention, my body is screaming with pain now.
Brian picks up the ball and pushes it into my palm.
“Again.”
“Fuck you, Brian.”
“Do it again, Jez.”
Our eyes lock, and I’m wishing him bloody murder in my head, but he doesn’t waver.
I take a breath, and shake my wrist. It does more harm than good. I lay my forearm back down onto the table.
Squeeze, you useless things, I curse at my pale, clammy fingers, squeeze the motherfucking ball!
They twitch, but barely move. Like they’re locked in place from months of being caged in a cast.
My index finger folds forward, and the others follow, awkward and gnarled. They almost envelope around the ball, but my thumb refuses to follow and the balls slips out through the gap across the table and onto the floor again.
“FUCK!” I yell, slamming my other hand against the table. “ARGHHH!” White hot heat sears up the inside of my hand and all the way up my arm to my shoulder.
But I barely notice it. My vision fogs up with anger, with frustration and I push away from the table and stand in the middle of the room and let out a scream.
This is not supposed to be happening.
The cast was supposed to come off and I was supposed to get to go back to my life.
This. This not being able to do the absolute simplest of tasks, and yet essential to everything that I am, was not supposed to feel like medieval torture.
“Jez.” In the fog, I hear her voice.
Dammit, I forgot she was here.
Why did I ask her here? What the fuck is wrong with me?”
“Jez,” she says again and I just want her to be gone. I don’t want her to see this.
“Go away, Noemie,” I say, my voice hard and harsh.
“No.”
“Just go,” I say again. “GO!”
“I’m not-…”
I spin around and she’s right there, and I lean in, my face pulled tight, my eyes wide. “I SAID GO! GO! I don’t want you here. Fucking GET OUT OF HERE!”
She flinches, her eyes blinking and I see her shoulders tense as she jumps. She steadies herself and her eyes flood with something… fear? Pity? God, no, please not pity.
God. What is happening to me?
I turn my back to her. “Just fucking go,” I say, tired. Resigned to this broken shell. “Can’t you see I don’t want you here?”
I close my eyes, my own breath, ragged in my ears. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even move.
Finally, I hear her sigh and her feet moving away from me against the vinyl floor.
I know I should apologize, but I can’t feel anything but the disappointment in myself crushing against my chest, leaving no room for air. I cradle my left hand against my sternum, like a wounded bird and wonder how to just disappear from here.
She’s gone. And there’s no longer a reason to be here.
NOEMIE
I stare at the wide expanse of his back, covered in a tight black T-shirt, like a shield. His shoulders hunched, his head bent, his arm folded, as he clutches at his own chest with his wounded hand. Every part of him shying away from me.
If you cracked open my chest at this moment, you would see my heart being fed through a shredder.
The pain that is etched all over his face is so raw and deep, it takes my breath away. I can’t even imagine what he is suffering right now. Physically, mentally.
Yes, you do. My mind tries to tell me. But I know it’s wrong. What I’m going through is nothing like this. Yes, I am confused, and frustrated and worried.
But I don’t have this soul deep ache that he seems to be going through. And I don’t even think I really understand it.
But I can see it in his eyes.
And I know that it’s real for him.
And that makes it real for me.
I pivot on my heel and walk toward the table where Brian is sitting. He is watching Jez, but not saying anything. I wonder how many times a day he sees this.
What a job to have.
I walk over to the ball on the floor and pick it up and walk back over, to stand in front of Jez.
I reach up and place my hand under his chin, lifting his face up.
His eyes are shining. Wet.
And he looks surprised to see me.
I look down at the hand curled up against his chest. Pulling it away from his body, I slide the ball into it.
And I tell him what he knows but needs to hear again, “I am not going anywhere. You asked me here. And I came. And I’m staying. So, you can yell at me if you think that’s going to make you feel better. Personally, I think you’re going to feel worse about it later, because that’s just the kind of good guy that you are. But if you need to yell I can take it. What I can’t take is seeing you give up.” I take a breath, and continue, “You can do this. It’s not going to be easy. It’s not meant to be. I know you want to be healed and back to normal and to get the hell out of here. I get it. And I don’t know what happened to you, but I know this – your bones don’t fucking care what you want. You have to tell them. You have to make them. You can do this.”