September 20th
Greg sits in his darkened living room, wedged into one end of the couch—cornered. But he can't smile at the bad pun. It's so quiet; the storm outside has driven everyone indoors and there's no traffic. If Gardener was here she'd have a bright blaze in the fireplace and music, fresh brioche and coffee ready for an afternoon snack . . . But she's not anywhere near him, so he'll take what he's got.
For a while he allows himself to adjust to being home. Idle thoughts drift in and out of his mind. It's a little awkward to sit on something like a couch; his balance is still off, even after weeks of physical therapy. There's discomfort in his lower back, a warning sign of impending sciatica no doubt. He has to shift a bit, adjust his posture. In time he'll get used to it to some degree, the same way he got used to the pain in his gutted quadriceps. It was always there, a constant, unwanted companion, the shadow between him and everything, everyone else. The only difference is that now he has emptiness in place of pain. Ironic, that knowledge. For years he'd have given anything to get rid of the shrill keen of damaged nerves; he's paid the price, although not of his own choice, and his situation has changed only in details and degree.
That knowledge is still too much to contemplate. He pushes it to the back of his mind and concentrates on other things.
His arrival home had been a bit more interesting than he'd expected. Wilson had wheeled him to the front step and left him to his own devices while he went back to the car for the groceries they'd picked up on the way. Greg stared at the steps. A concrete ramp with a low slope had been set up on one side.
"Someone's been messing with things," he'd observed when Wilson returned. The other man had shot him a brief glance as he hauled out his keys.
"So it seems." He'd set the groceries on the floor to unlock the door, which had given Greg a chance to try out the ramp. It was easy to navigate. He'd hated it, and he still does. But it's a change that will prove useful.
Now he looks around once more. His apartment is the same as ever, though it's clear someone's done a recent clean—Wilson, probably. Gardener's touches are still in residence, and there's even beer in the fridge—the IPA he likes. Greg takes another swallow, savors the taste. He remembers his tour of the kitchen. It won't be easy to cook, but then he never did much of that anyway. He's still got his takeout menus and the store down the street delivers, good enough to go on.
The bathroom has been renovated. "No, I didn't do this," Wilson had said when Greg had made some caustic comment. There are sturdy hand rails everywhere, and the sink's been lowered a bit so he can use it either standing or seated. None of Gardener's things had been visible, though. A quick check had revealed her soap, shampoo, cosmetics are all gone.
The bedroom had been modified too, though he didn't care about that. He'd gone to the tallboy and opened a drawer Gardener used for her stay-over clothes. It was full of shirts—his tee shirts. There was no trace of her personal items anywhere.
"What did you expect?" had been Wilson's reply when Greg confronted him about it. "You haven't talked to her in weeks. It's clear she thinks you're done with her." He gestured at a stand in the hallway. "She left her keys too." Sure enough, her set was there, neat and tidy—no note, either.
And so here he is, alone with an empty beer bottle in hand as he struggles to figure out the game Gardener plays. She'd paid off his hospital bill in full, all six figures of it; set up his home so it's easier for him to go through daily life; stocked him with enough food to make it through the next few months. And yet she hasn't contacted him at all.
After a while he climbs into the chair and rolls over to the piano. It's dust-free and there's a new bench, padded and adjustable. He manages to get onto it and winces as his incision gives him a warning shot, complete with a mild spasm. The truncated muscles are still healing, and too much activity causes problems.
Once he's settled, he examines the instrument. The ivory gleams, an invitation to touch the keys and make music. He places his fingers with care, plays a soft chord, then a run of scales. The piano's in tune—so that's been dealt with too. Well, he won't complain. It feels good to sit here as he has so many times in the past, just him and the music. But there's something missing. He knows what it is, but he won't admit it to himself.
After a while he notices it's dark outside, and he hasn't turned on any lights. He's hungry now too. If Gardener was here . . . He shakes his head, as if that will make the thought fly out, and stares at his wheelchair. A few moments later he begins the laborious process of transfer.
It's the work of ten minutes to get a delivery of Indian food set up, and a table lamp turned on. The remote for the tv sits on the coffee table. He picks it up to check the availability of channels. The cable's still on; a quick run through the schedule reveals the premium tiers are in place. He can watch porn, a game, old movies, almost anything he wants. It's a small comfort that won't last long, but it'll do for tonight.
Soon enough he's back on the couch with a couple of beers, a beef curry, and some football match or other—he hasn't even bothered to find out who's playing. At any other time before Gardener had entered his life, this would be a good evening. Instead it's empty, all of it—an attempt at normalcy when he knows damn well nothing will be the same again. The knowledge that he has the power to change this with a phone call makes it all worse, because he won't be the one to give in until he figures things out in his head. But he isn't willing to walk into another betrayal, not again . . . even the thought of a call is impossible, a fact he loathes, and yet there it is. He can't trust her until he has more information. And that's what Dana wants from him: trust.
After a while he abandons the curry on the coffee table and slugs down both beers before he pulls a fleece throw over himself. He can't face an empty bedroom, not yet. Maybe not ever. It doesn't matter. On that bleak thought he drifts into an uneasy sleep, exhausted, uncertain and alone.