Compass (Siren Songs Book 2) (20 page)

The look on his face shows disappointment, but I’m not sure why.

“Do you have another suggestion? I’m open to anything you want to try, Moby.”

“I don’t know. I feel like I’m doing all this alone.”

“Why do you feel alone? You just got home and haven’t even tried any of it.”

He shakes his head, possibly trying to put his thoughts in order. “I don’t remember things I should.”

“I know, and the doctors have all said it’s normal.” I wait for a response, but nothing comes. “Let’s try this and see how it works. We can always tweak it and maybe a counselor will have other suggestions.” I should stop here, but I keep talking. “You know I can’t hold your hand every step of the way, right? I have to go to work and obviously there are things around here that have to be done.”

“I didn’t ask you to hold my fucking hand.” His face lights up with exasperation. “Damn, Piper, I’m just asking for your help.”

“And I told you, I’ll help you in any way I can. I offered suggestions. If you don’t like them, tell me what you want and we’ll try your way. I’m open. Seriously.” In an attempt to keep my voice even-keeled I come off patronizing. “I’m sorry. I truly am. We’re going to have to stop fighting and start working together.”

He seems resigned to his fate, nodding his head in acceptance. I offer to take him to get a journal, which he refuses, asking me to go for him. I’m sure the walking in and out of Wal-Mart would wipe him out. The school supplies are at the back of the store, and he’d barely make it through the parking lot. After getting him set up on the couch, I head out. Hopefully, this will start the road to recovery. Up to this point it feels like we’ve just been going in circles.

* * *

T
he weeks seem
to fly by with never enough time in the day to get everything done. We’ve created a new routine, or as much of one as possible with constant physical therapy and doctor’s appointments. Moby’s currently doing outpatient physical and occupational therapy at Peace, the same hospital he did inpatient therapy with. He goes for two hours a day, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I take him there—since he still isn’t able to drive—then take him home, before going to work, three hours late.

Cam’s been more than accommodating, allowing me to work eleven to seven instead of eight to five. I usually don’t take a lunch break, so I’m not there quite so late but a couple times in the last month I’ve had to use it to take Moby to different doctors appointments. He has regular visits with his neurologist and nephrologist, not to mention an internist. The bills keep stacking up but somehow; something always comes through to pay them before they’re due. Moby’s short-term disability helps some, but it doesn’t even come close to replacing his income.

If only my day were complete when I clock out, but it continues long into the night. Moby’s still fairly limited in his use of his left hand although he’s moving better, using a cane instead of a walker when he can. I don’t really understand why he can’t move laundry from the washer to the dryer, or put dishes away, or load the dishwasher next to the sink. The more I do, the more he lets me take on.

I’ve kept my mouth shut about my growing list of chores around the house because he’s diligent in doing his PT and OT at home, not to mention going to the sessions at the rehab center. The stroke was nearly three months ago, and his insurance maxes out this week. I’m praying they release him to drive because I don’t have an inkling how I will get him to Lyman to continue treatment.

Rita came through and got Moby into one of the state facilities and somehow we managed to eek just under the income cap, so he has access to the facility for two years at no cost to us. If he doesn’t have a driver’s license and can’t drive, I may have to see if Cam will allow me to start working remotely.

Our counseling sessions are an exercise in futility. Ralph, the therapist Shelly recommended, was great the first couple times we went to see him but I missed an appointment, so Brooks took Moby and since then, it seems Ralph has given Moby a pass for perpetual idleness. Moby has readily accepted it.

Ralph justifies Moby’s laziness, his inability to engage around the house, and anything else keeping him from being a productive member of society by blaming his life changes on the stroke. I realize there are permanent alterations, but Moby has just accepted how he is
now
is how he will always be—as if Ralph’s words were the inherent words of God. The drive I’ve seen in Moby has vanished, and our therapist has validated it, making it truth in my husband’s eyes.

I foolishly assumed as Moby got stronger and gained more mobility he would start to resume normal activities, but thus far it hasn’t happened. I remember a time when he would rather die than allow me to carry groceries in the house, but now, he doesn’t mind me bringing them in, putting them away, cooking dinner, mowing the grass while he eats, weed eating while he takes a nap, and me staying up until midnight doing laundry and cleaning while he’s safe and snuggly in bed before ten every evening.

Tonight is no different than any of the last thirty. After taking him to therapy, working eight hours without a break or lunch, coming home to cook dinner, do the dishes, and start a load of laundry, I see him sitting on the couch laughing at something on television. My blood boils. I try to temper it but to no avail. I’m tired, I’ve been tired, and my husband’s having a hell of a good time allowing me to pay the bills and do the grunt work.

“I can’t do this anymore!” I scream startling him.

He jumps from the couch, as much as he’s able to
jump
. “What’s wrong? Why are you yelling?”

“What’s wrong? Are you kidding me with that shit?” I realize I’m not being rational. He has no idea what’s going through my head, although in my opinion he should be fully aware of how little he does, and can’t possibly think it would be acceptable.

I can’t stand the sight of Moby Cooper. I resent the hell out of him. He stole my life, my freedom, what remained of my youth. “You sit around and don’t do a damn thing while I’m working fourteen and sixteen hours a day. How the fuck can you be okay with that? What happened to the man who wouldn’t allow a woman to do anything he could do for her?”

I haven’t cried in weeks. I’ve kept it all under lock and key, putting on a front to give him the ability to take care of himself. The burn in my cheeks and my eyes indicates what’s coming. I fight it, fight hard to keep it from coming to the surface but for months.
Months.
Everything has been about Moby and
his
recovery.

“What is it you want me to do, Piper?” He spits my name out like it’s a vile taste on his tongue. “I can barely walk and have little use of my hand. It makes it pretty difficult to work.”

My eyes go wide in disbelief, shaking my head trying to wrap my mind around the delusional world he’s living in. “You aren’t fucking broken, Moby! Maybe if you tried to do anything other than sitting on the couch with that damn dog you might start to figure out ways to adapt. I can think of a hundred things you could help with. Would you be slower than in the past? Probably, but would it be showing me you want to participate? Absolutely!”

“What the hell is it you think I can do?”

I slam the dishwasher door and come barreling around the kitchen counter, needing him to see the expression on my face, to recognize the pain I’m in over his perceived disability. “Can you walk to the washing machine?”

“Huh?”

“Can you walk to the washing machine?” I annunciate each word slowly and carefully, waving my fingers around like I know sign language, since clearly I’m speaking English and he doesn’t understand. It’s rude and totally uncalled for but damn, how clear of a picture can I paint for him?

“Yes, I can walk to the washing machine.”

“So if you can walk to the washing machine, I’m assuming you can stand in front of it, correct?”

“Obviously, I can stand in front of the machine.” His anger is beginning to match my own.

“If you, by your own admission, can walk to the washing machine
and
stand in front of it, what the fuck prevents you from putting a goddamn load in it and starting it?” My fists are clenched at my side, but other than that, my effort to restrain myself is not evident.

“How do you expect me to do laundry with one hand?”

“Well, let’s see. You can open the door with one hand, you can put the detergent in with one hand, you can toss the clothes in with one hand, and close the lid…with one hand.”

“How is putting clothes in the washing machine a help?” He doesn’t get it. Doesn’t see it.

“If you can put them in the washer, what’s stopping you from putting them in the dryer? Or from taking them out and dumping them in a basket even if you can’t fold them? Although, let’s be honest, you have nothing but time, so even if it takes you four hours to fold a load of clothes, you could do it in front of the television that has become your best friend and at least attempt to show me you care!” I shouldn’t scream at him, I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop. The harder I try to stop the louder I become wondering if the neighbors are going to hear me.

“Is this really about laundry?”

Oh, my God, I’m going to smack the shit out of him.

“No! The laundry is a poor metaphor for
everything
else in our lives. You do nothing but sit on your ass. If I wanted to take care of someone else twenty-four hours a day, I would have adopted children, not gotten married.”

“Okay,” he draws the word out in shock over my explosion. “What else do you want me to be doing other than laundry?”

My eyes close and I subtly shake my head. I recognize this may be the best I’m going to get from him. He can’t see the bigger issue, but maybe if I tell him things I believe he can do, and he tries to do them, I’ll let go of some of the animosity I’m harboring.

Exhaling loudly through my nose, I sound like a bull ready to charge. “Dishes. You can load the dishwasher. You can put them away. You don’t have to move to do any of it. You could attempt to make dinner—hell, soup from a can would be amazing if I didn’t have to cook it or clean it up after a fourteen-hour day. You could help put the groceries away when I bring them in the house. There are so many things you could do to show me you’re making an effort. And besides that, it would be a form of physical therapy for your bad hand.” Pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes, I try to relieve some of the pressure from my life. “You might not be able to do those things perfectly, but it would be something.” Dropping my hands, the barrier for the tears falls, the evidence of my frustration flows down my face. “I need to feel like I’m worth trying for, Moby,” I add softly through the tears.

Coming to me, he wraps his right arm around me, propped up on his cane. “Of course, you’re worth trying for. I didn’t realize you were so upset. You haven’t said anything.”

Sobbing into his chest, clenching his shirt in my fists, I cry out to him, “I want my husband back, Moby! I can’t do life without him. Please,” I wail, “send him back to me!” Begging my husband to find himself again seems like the most pathetic thing I’ve ever done, but he’s the only one who still has access to the man I love and so desperately miss.

With my head pressed to his chest, his arm tucks me closely to him, he allows me to carry on until I’m completely depleted before he moves us to the couch to sit down.

Embarrassed, I can’t bring myself to look at him. I can’t remember a time since I was a child I’ve had this sort of an outburst, but the last few months have left me ragged and raw.

“You wanna talk to me?” he whispers into the top of my head.

Shaking my head like a little girl, his chest shakes with a silent laugh.

“You’ve never had a hard time opening up to me, why are you shutting down now?”

Shrugging, I offer him no answers. The tips of his fingers find my chin, gently lifting it to make eye contact. He searches my swollen eyes. “Baby, talk to me, please…”

“I don’t know what to say, Moby. I feel like the more I do, the more you let me do. The man I married has totally disappeared and left me with a shell of someone I don’t recognize.” With no tears left to cry, my voice is meek and broken.

“I don’t recognize you anymore either.” It’s not a comment made in retaliation. I see the truth in his face and hear the sincerity in his tone.

I sit up to face him better. “What do you mean?” I haven’t changed. I’m still the same person. The stress from the daunting workload never seems to dissipate. Every task I complete leaves five more on the list. It’s never-ending.

“I mean the girl I laughed with, cut up with, got freaky with. My partner. She’s gone. I haven’t seen her in months. The last time I saw a glimpse of her spunk was before the stroke, and I miss her.” I watch as he closes his eyes, daydreaming about the woman he swears has vanished.

Thinking through his assessment, I realize just how accurate it is. I haven’t seen that girl in forever either and honestly am starting to forget what she was like. I’ve been so consumed with Moby’s downward spiral I haven’t bothered acknowledging my own.