“Oh-kay. That’s a little odd, but what’s up?”
Keeping her eyes downcast, she took a sip from her steaming mug followed by a slow, deep, nervous breath. When she finally looked up and spoke, her voice was soft and the words came quickly. “I won’t be going back to the apartment, Jerry. Steve and I…”
Jerry had a good idea where this was headed—where it had been headed for a month or so now—so he shut up and mentally crossed his fingers.
“…and for the sake of the girls, I’m moving back and we’re going to give our marriage one more try. You know I love you, but the girls need me.”
“You’re sure this time? Steve’s sure?”
“Yeah. I… I need them, too.”
“Haley, I’ve always said that I’d respect your decision if you went back to Steve and the girls, and I do.”
She took his hands in hers and kissed them, grateful. “Thank you, Sweetie. We’ll still be friends. Steve and the girls like you, so maybe you can come over for Sunday dinner every so often.”
Jerry forced a half smile. “Sure.” He was surprised how much actually hearing her say the words hurt.
“You’re not mad?”
“Why would I be mad, Haley? Disappointed, yes. Mad? What would be the point?” He shook his head sadly. “You’ve made your decision. And now I’ve made mine.” He dropped a handful of fives on the table to take care of the bill, then stood up with his heavy coat in hand. “Take care, Haley.”
She reached out to stop him from leaving. “Jerry…”
“Have a good life, Haley. No regrets. Call me when you want to come get your stuff.” He turned to leave but only got two steps before her quiet whisper stopped him.
“I love you, Jerry.”
“Yeah, me too.” He placed a folded ten-dollar bill on the counter in front of their waitress as he passed by. “Thanks, Tanya. G’night.”
Both relieved and sad that Haley had finally made up her mind, Jerry stepped firmly out into the night. Once outside, bundled up against the cold, he shook off unexpected tears. Then he steadied himself and headed off up the Queen Street hill, now fervently wishing he’d driven instead of walking the half-mile from the apartment. The throb of a familiar headache was already starting.
He was only a block from home when the mild throb transformed into a full-blown migraine within the space of a heartbeat, causing Jerry to stumble on the freshly plowed sidewalk. His boots scuffed awkward marks in the light dusting of snow as he slammed his eyes shut and jammed his gloved hands against his temples with the hope that just this once he could squeeze out the pain. The movement only seemed to sharpen and define the agony, and he wobbled a few more steps before dropping to his knees into the nearest fluffy snowdrift. The pain of his bruised heart forgotten, he ripped off his woollen toque and slammed two generous handfuls of snow to his temples, crushing them hard to his aching skull.
“Oh God oh God oh God.” Unsuccessfully willing away the spikes of torturous current, he groaned and whimpered and tried not to puke.
The vice tightened on his skull, and he was sure his head was going to explode like a grape. Then the worst of the wave passed and he was able to roll over into a sitting position and look around. His vision was blurry as hell but he could see that he was still very much alone beneath the streetlight, in the softly tumbling snowfall. He suspected that everyone else in St. Marys was either inside, barred against the cold, or at the hockey game, screaming encouragement at their team. Not a single car passed by in the five minutes Jerry took to eventually stagger to his feet and start stumbling his way through the final leg of what had just become a marathon journey home. By the time he reached the walk leading up to the scruffy, ninety-year-old former Victorian manor, he felt the beast of a second storm of pain stalking him, close on his heels.
In through the shared entrance, up the Everest of the bending, scream-squeaking, wooden stairs, he fumbled with the key, dropped it once, snatched it up, and gently, deliberately, slipped it into the lock. The entire time, the Riverside ribs threatened to come back up and stain the faded old wallpaper with barbeque sauce. With his weight against the door when he turned the key and the knob, it slammed open, pulling him into the darkness. He managed to stay on his feet just long enough to shoulder the door closed behind him before he succumbed to gravity and crumpled.
Almost blind from the pain, Jerry let instinct guide him. He crawled down the long, semi-dark hallway to the cluttered coffee table in the living room where a distant memory told him that somewhere on the table, amongst the variety of half-read photography magazines and a D. B. Jackson novel, was a huge bottle of some extra-strength painkiller. A quick grope found the bottle, and after a brief struggle to open it, he popped four of the chalky white tablets into his mouth and chewed. With a swallow from a warm, half-empty can of Pepsi on the end table beside him, he washed down the crushed relief, crawled onto the couch, and curled up in a fetal ball, smushing a cushion over his eyes to block out the light he didn’t have the energy to turn off. He rocked back and forth, groaning, wanting to puke but not daring to for the further torture it would inflict. Soon tears came, but for the pain, not for Haley or the pseudo life they’d had. It took almost half an hour, but he finally fell asleep, not giving a damn that he was still wearing his snow-wet coat and boots.
JERRY WOKE ONCE during the night, long enough to remove his outdoor clothes, stumble into the bathroom to relieve his bladder of the previous evening’s coffee, and then back to the couch. The bedroom was still too far away. By the time the sun came up, he was finally sleeping peacefully and soundly under the old afghan blanket he’d had since he was a kid.
NOON FOUND HIM sitting up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and draining the rest of the Pepsi with a disgusted grimace. He swallowed the warm, syrupy sweetness, and found himself staring at Sushi, his Siamese fighting fish that watched him from the little tank on his desk.
“Ladies and gentlemen, pain has left the building. A couple more skull-crushers like that and I’ll have them amputate my damned head, Soosh.” He yawned, levered his stiff body up off the long couch, and stretched out the kinks he always got from sleeping there. He was twisting his neck left and right to pop the tendons and get the blood flowing again when there was a rapid, insistent, small-fisted knock at the apartment door.
“Too early for the cleaning lady I should hire, too late for the milkman who no longer delivers,” he mumbled as he wandered off to answer the knock. As he shuffled past, Sushi turned and swam behind the ancient Greek ruins dominating his home. The knocker took a break just long enough for Jerry to wander down the hall to answer the pounding before it brought on another headache. He opened the door and found his teenaged neighbour, Isis, with her fist raised to knock again. Lowering her hand to her hip, the bouncy, bubbly, cute, stone-deaf fifteen-year-old looked Jerry up and down with disapproval. She pushed past him and walked down the hall backwards, speaking and flashing sign language at him.
“Jerry, your lights were on all night and you look like shit. You slept in your clothes, too.”
“Isis, have you been spying on me again?” Jerry spoke and signed back, fluent from years of volunteering with the hearing impaired. “What did I tell you? Being a friend is good. Being a stalker is bad.”
“Sedona had to take a midnight piss, and I was up reading, so I took her. Besides, I’m not stalking you—I watch out for you.”
“I know. Thank you, kiddo. Now give me a quick hug and go start the coffee maker, please. I’m going to brush my teeth and change.”
Isis glanced around the apartment. “Is she here?”