AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Hello and thank you to the new guest reviewers that have once again come out and left such kind comments on the last chapter. It means the world to me to hear from you all! This chapter goes out to crisptrepidation, who had requested a chapter about what it was like for Artie when he had first begun to adjust to life using a wheelchair.

Enjoy, and please follow me and this story and leave a review!

Chapter 15: Happy Days Are Here Again

ARTIE

"Hey, stop!" Artie exclaimed, swatting his older brother's hand away from the pile of strawberries he was cutting up to serve as a side with their lunch. "If you keep eating them I won't have any to go with our sandwiches."

Griffin smirked as he popped another piece of the fruit into his mouth, before taking a seat at the kitchen island, across from where Artie was working.

The two of them had gotten up early (well, Artie had gotten up at his usual time, ever the early riser) and headed to the gym. Griffin had gone alone yesterday morning as Artie hadn't felt up to it and had opted to sleep in. They had developed some kind of routine when they were both home, working out together. Artie's upper body had never looked too shabby– having gone from being a competitive gymnast as a kid, to having no choice but to use his chest and arm muscles for pretty much everything– but he had visibly noticed the benefits of lifting weights and using the bench press, and Griffin was always happy to have a gym buddy.

They'd returned from the gym a few hours before, and both boys had time to shower and change before Artie had started making lunch for the two of them. All the while, Sebastian and Ella were still asleep.

"Look at these sleeping beauties!" Griffin exclaimed as Sebastian and Ella finally came downstairs with two impressive cases of bedhead, still in their pajamas. "Nice of you princesses to join us. Did you have a restful night of sleep?"

"Sure," Sebastian replied, rubbing his eyes before taking the seat beside him and looking to Artie. "What's for breakfast, Art?"

"Lunch," Artie corrected.

"What?"

"It's eleven forty-five. This is lunch. And I'm making sandwiches."

Artie couldn't believe the way that the younger two seemed to have no qualms about sleeping the day away. Why did it become his problem when they finally woke up and were hungry? He wasn't the one that had slept right through the time that was appropriately allotted for the first meal of the day, after all.

"Oh, come on, you can't fix us something small for breakfast?" Sebastian continued to push back.

"Like your french toast?" Ella asked, clasping her hands together and shooting Artie a hopeful look.

At that moment, it hit him, and Artie couldn't help but notice that– even in her pajamas with her long dark hair unbrushed– Ella looked more mature than he remembered her being. Soon she'd be in high school, he realized, and (soon-ish) he'd be off to college. He tried not to be super sentimental about things like that, but it was proving to be difficult. His sister was growing up, and so was he, and he wasn't sure how many more chances he'd have to make her favorite breakfast for her.

Outwardly, Artie rolled his eyes, but inside, he was secretly a little happy she'd asked, even if it did require more work on his part. Artie had always been a people pleaser, especially when it came to someone he loved so much, like he did his baby sister, and someone he was… trying to learn to love, like his new step-brother. He was trying not to take the opportunity to make something for them for granted.

"Fine, fine," Artie gave in. "Brunch it is."

Sebastian and Ella cheered and high-fived at that, with Seb even going so far as to lean across the counter to give Artie a high-five too, which he hesitantly returned.

Artie had just finished the subs he'd made for himself and Griffin, so he shoved Griffin's toward him and took a quick bite of his own, before wheeling over to the pantry to fetch his cookbook off of one of the lower shelves. Artie's personal cookbook held all of his favorite recipes he'd learned over the years, painstakingly handwritten on the pages and on loose recipe cards shoved inside. He also hung an apron around his neck that was long enough to rest on his lap. You could never be too careful when cooking from a seated position, and he liked to protect his various funny and cleverly adorned knit sweaters however he could.

Opening the cookbook to the correct page, he propped it up on the counter and set off to fetch the ingredients he'd need: brioche, eggs, milk, vanilla extract, ground cinnamon, butter, and salt.

"French toast isn't really French you know," Sebastian stated to nobody in particular as the other three siblings sat around the kitchen being wildly unhelpful while Artie sliced up the bread.

"Then why do they call it that?" Griffin asked, to which Sebastian shrugged.

"I don't know. I just know it isn't French."

Sebastian was proving to be quite a picky eater, from what Artie had observed after living with the other guy for a couple of months. Much of his food intake involved meat of some kind, macaroni and cheese, or chips. Artie was kind of surprised to discover that french toast was something he'd eat.

Sebastian got up just then and headed over to the Keurig machine to make himself some coffee. As it was brewing, the Abrams siblings watched as the taller boy opened the liquor cabinet, reaching for the first bottle he saw.

"What are you doing?" Ella asked. "Are you putting a shot of whiskey in your coffee?!"

"It's Courvoisier, it's a cognac," Sebastian calmly replied. "America is so lame. In Paris, they drink it like it's mother's milk. Plus, as Artie already pointed out, we're having brunch. And what's brunch without a little alcohol?"

Sebastian settled back into his seat at the kitchen island and Artie shook his head as he whisked the ingredients together in a bowl, setting it on his lap to move it next to the buttered griddle. With his back to the others, Artie used a fork to dip each piece of bread into the mixture before setting it on the griddle to cook.

"You're pretty comfortable in the kitchen, huh?"

Artie glanced over his shoulder to find Sebastian staring expectantly back at him over his coffee mug. Even though up until this point he and Sebastian had been mostly avoiding one another when they were both home, surely Sebastian had witnessed him making dinner once or twice, even if he hadn't commented on it before.

"I just don't know many other guys who can cook like you, is all," Sebastian added.

As he'd already told Sebastian, the first year or so after the accident was a lot more emotional to reflect on for Artie than his life beforehand. For that reason, he was hesitant about how much to share. On one hand, he rarely spoke of the accident and the months afterward with anyone that hadn't been there to witness it all. He certainly didn't discuss this period of his life with people who had a habit of throwing slushies at his friends. But on the other hand, Sebastian was going to be family soon, and by now, he'd already heard most of the gory details of the accident. So, Artie allowed himself to launch into that story.

"My mom taught me to cook after the accident," Artie explained. "For those first few months, all I had been allowed to do was rest and go to physical therapy. But by the time I was home from rehab, I'd been weaned off of all of my painkillers and was only going to PT twice a week or so. I was antsy for something to occupy my time with, so she taught me to cook."

Lima, Ohio

February 2003

"Watcha doing?" Artie asked, coasting to a stop by where his mother was gathering ingredients from the refrigerator and placing them on the kitchen island. He gripped the countertop with his fingers on both hands and stretched his neck as long as he could, hoping to get a glimpse at what she was doing above his eye level.

Griffin had gone down the street to play basketball in a neighbor friend's driveway, and Artie had been in the living room playing Barbies on the coffee table with Ella before he'd gotten bored and come to see what his mother was up to. Ella had trailed into the kitchen after him, her dolls still in hand.

"I was just about to start making dinner," Nancy told him. "I was thinking we'd have chili. How does that sound?"

Artie shrugged. He'd never been all that opinionated when it came to food, and he found himself more indifferent than ever in recent months. After eating hospital food for so long with so many new medications coursing through his little body, everything had started to taste funny.

"Do you want to be my helper with dinner tonight?" Nancy asked, glancing over Artie's shoulder to find that Ella had lost interest in the conversation and had settled herself on the floor with her Barbies to play by herself. "I can teach you how to make it so that someday when you're older and live on your own, you'll know how to cook."

"Live by myself?" Artie repeated with a hint of surprise in his voice. "But what about you and Daddy?"

His mother got a good laugh out of that. "Well, you'll live here for a couple more years, then you'll go off to college. And when you're a grown-up, you'll be ready to live on your own."

Artie thought about that for a second. A couple of months ago, that wouldn't have seemed like such a crazy idea, but after recent events, living a life of being totally self-sufficient seemed almost inconceivable. He'd only been home from rehab for a few weeks, but it felt like his parents were doing everything for him: helping with his stretches that had to be done every morning and night, assisting with some of the trickier transfers that he was still getting used to, standing outside of his bathroom just in case he needed help with anything, waking him up every couple of hours at night to make sure he'd turned to avoid getting pressure sores… His parents (and Griffin, too) had done so much for him lately. They had devoted every spare moment to taking care of him since the accident, and he didn't think that the thanks he should give should be to pack up and leave, even if that day was far in the future.

"Someday you may want to get married and have kids, and being able to cook will be a very useful skill to have," Nancy assured him. "I wish your Nana had taught your dad a little more about cooking. Then maybe he'd be able to make something besides chicken noodle soup from a can."

Artie could laugh at that as she ruffled his hair.

"Okay," Artie agreed. "But how will I reach? The counter's too high."

Nancy pondered that for a moment before she got an idea.

"Why don't I go get your standing frame from the living room," She suggested. "You haven't stood yet today, so we can use this as your at-home PT for the day. And I'm sure your OT would like to hear about how you helped to make dinner when you have your appointment tomorrow."

Artie nodded, and Nancy disappeared into the other room to fetch the piece of equipment which– conveniently– was also on wheels, making it easy to move from one area of the house to another.

Artie dreaded the hour each day he had to spend in the stander. He couldn't go anywhere in it on his own, and it took a long time to make sure all of the straps and buckles and padding were in place. And what was all the fuss for if he couldn't stand on his own anymore? Artie had voiced his opinions on the mechanism several times during PT sessions, and his therapist Kyle had told him time and time again that standing was good for his circulation and his bone density. But, still, Artie just felt that it was inconvenient. He usually watched a few episodes of SpongeBob SquarePants or colored a picture to pass the time, and he figured that helping his mom with dinner may be another thing he could add to the list of things that made the time he had to spend upright pass faster.

Right there in the kitchen, she helped him to get situated in the contraption, velcroing, buckling, tightening, and loosening straps where needed. It was an awfully tedious process for something that seemed somewhat simple, which tended to aggravate Artie the more he thought about it. But before he was able to spend too long dwelling on that thought, he was standing, the padding supporting his body in the upright position from multiple different angles. His mother removed the tray from the front of the piece of equipment, since it would just be in the way, and set it on the kitchen table.

"Wash your hands first," Nancy advised him, moving the standing frame over to the sink. Artie removed the fingerless gloves he'd started wearing– to protect his hands from the blisters that came as a result of being overworked, doing the jobs of both hands and feet– and set them on the counter before scrubbing his hands with soap and water.

Nancy then read him the recipe from the cookbook and showed him the ingredients she'd already gathered. She showed him how to properly measure dry and wet ingredients, which piece of kitchenware served what purpose, and where they were all located in cabinets around the kitchen. As Nancy worked on cooking the ground beef, she put Artie in charge of measuring out the spices that the recipe called for. Though he wasn't even nine yet, Artie's keen attention to detail made him a natural in the kitchen. Artie found himself having so much fun that being in his stander didn't even feel like therapy.

"I like cooking, Mom," Artie told her gleefully.

"I'm glad!" Nancy replied, periodically stirring the ingredients that were on the stove.

"Maybe…" Artie began speaking before he paused for a moment to think. His parents had already made a few changes to their house since he'd been home from the hospital in order to make his life easier. Maybe something could be done about the inaccessible kitchen too? "Maybe we could lower the countertops a little bit?"

"I don't see why not. The height they're at right now works just fine when you're in your standing frame, but that's not always practical. I want you to be able to cook yourself something from your chair, if you'd like to," She told him. "Tell you what, I'll talk to Daddy and we'll write that into the renovations, okay?"

Artie grinned and nodded as Nancy leaned over to kiss his forehead.

"When I first came home from rehab, only a couple of renovations to the house had been made. We had ramps in the garage and into the living room, and they'd converted the den into my bedroom, but for the most part, a lot of the accommodations that were made to the house were my ideas," Artie explained to Sebastian, his back still turned to the other three as he flipped the pieces of french toast over on the griddle so that they were cooked evenly on both sides. "Whenever something didn't work for me anymore, we'd brainstorm ideas to make it better. Replacing the thick carpeting with hardwood floors, widening the doorways, and when I began to get painful blisters on my palms from wheeling everywhere, I started wearing gloves to protect my hands."

Artie held up the yellow gloves he'd already taken off and stashed in the space between the side of his leg and the frame of his chair.

"Oh, you mean that you don't wear them because they're fashionable?" Sebastian teased.

"I mean that I don't wear them only because they're fashionable," Artie grinned back, in on the joke.

"We figured things out as we went along. It was a lot of trial and error in those days to see what felt right and what worked and was comfortable," Artie explained. "Good thing we got these countertops lowered some because Mom was right. It wouldn't have been feasible to have someone's help getting into the stander each time I wanted to use the kitchen appliances. And as I've gotten older and busier, I've been going to therapy and using the frame probably less than I should be. Back then, I could last a lot longer upright. Now, my blood pressure is so accustomed to me sitting down that I tend to throw my body for a loop whenever I try to stand. I could never make a whole meal in a standing position these days."

Sebastian nodded his understanding. Artie knew that Sebastian probably didn't understand much about the ways his body differed from those of other guys' their age (it was complicated, after all), but he appeared to be at least trying to get it.

"Thank God that Mom taught him to cook," Griffin commented as he licked his fingers, having finished his sub. "That became especially helpful as we got older, and she worked late, and family sit-down dinners weren't in the cards anymore. Art made sure we didn't starve. He's a better chef than Mom is now."

"I wouldn't go that far…" Artie shook his head as he plated the french toast onto two plates for Seb and Ella. He had a bad habit of downplaying his accomplishments (he knew it was something he needed to work on). "I just liked helping her. I've always been an early riser, so I'd help her pack Griffin and Ella's lunches in the mornings before they went to school– even though I didn't go back that year– and she'd ask me again at night to help her with dinner. I enjoyed it a lot, having something to do. Back in those days, I struggled to find things that I could do on my own."

"Hey, can I have a separate plate for my fruit?" Sebastian cut in, apparently not quite as concerned with Artie's flashback as he was with his brunch.

"Why? You have more room on your plate right there."

"I don't want my strawberries and my french toast to touch."

"What are you, five?" Artie teased before getting Sebastian the requested plate anyways. "You haven't outgrown that phase yet?"

"I may act like I'm five, but you dress like you're ninety," Seb was quick to retort, making a forceful stab at his french toast with his fork. "You look like you're waiting to be wheeled off to the nursing home."

Artie looked down at his outfit– an argyle sweater vest over a white short-sleeved collared shirt that was buttoned all the way up, pleated khakis, and saddle shoes– and scowled at Sebastian. The other guy may have had a point when saying that he dressed older than his age, but Artie happened to like the way he looked. Why should that be any of Sebastian's business? Artie never commented on the way the other guy walked around the house shirtless most of the time, even though he didn't appreciate that!

"You didn't go back to school after your accident?" Sebastian then asked, his curiosity regarding the events of Artie's childhood apparently getting the best of him once he received the second plate he'd asked for.

Artie shook his head.

"Nope. Not until the next year. I'd missed so much work while I was in the hospital and at rehab that I really didn't have a choice but to repeat third grade," Artie said. "That was the hardest thing, watching my friends move up without me. Because other than my new accessory–" (Artie gestured to his wheels.) "I felt just fine come Spring. But all of my friends and siblings were in school all day, and I was mostly just bored out of my mind. So bored, in fact, that I was willing to do just about anything to keep me busy…"

May 2003

Artie knew it wouldn't have been possible to have returned to school that year, but he still felt like he was missing out.

During the weekdays, when Griffin and Ella were off to sixth grade and pre-school, the house was eerily quiet and Artie missed everything more. He missed the things he expected to, like playing kickball at recess. But he was surprised to find that he also missed the 'boring' things, like his schoolwork. His mother began to buy educational workbooks for him to complete, but it wasn't the same as being in an actual learning environment with other kids his age. He'd already decided that he wouldn't take going to school every morning for granted ever again.

By the time May had rolled around, Artie had read every book in their house. He had advanced on to the workbooks meant for fourth and fifth graders, as his mother struggled to satisfy his insatiable hunger for knowledge. His days were spent running errands with his mom, reading, going to therapy, watching television, and counting down the minutes until Griffin and Ella got off the school bus at three o'clock. The repetition of it all caused him to reach a new level of boredom.

More than anything, Artie missed his friends. He hadn't seen most of them since the week before school let out for Thanksgiving. Kurt's dad had brought him by twice to visit right when Artie had gotten home from rehab, but both times were kind of awkward. Kurt was nice to him, of course, and Artie knew that Kurt probably didn't mean to show that he was a little uncomfortable (so he tried not to hold it against him). That was just how things were now.

Artie felt like everyone was on edge around him. His parents were more overprotective than they had ever been before, hovering over his every move. Even Griffin was hesitant to tease him in the lighthearted way that he used to. The only one who seemed to treat him the same as before was Ella– and that was because she was too little to see him as anyone other than her beloved big brother.

Artie longed for the day that the novelty of the chair would wear off. For the day that his friends, his brother, and his parents treated him normally. By May, Artie felt like almost the same kid he was last November before the accident had taken place. He was sick of people looking at him differently. Like he was fragile. He had metal in his back now– didn't that make him even less breakable than everyone else?

He was tired of feeling so helpless. Tired of everyone doing everything for him all the time. He didn't want to be coddled. He wanted to be treated like someone capable of taking care of themself.

That's what was on Artie's mind as he rolled into the kitchen one day to find his mother making some pasta for him to have for lunch.

"Hey there," His mom greeted him without even needing to turn around, having heard the distinct– but always welcome– sound of Artie's chair on the hardwood floors. "Hungry?"

He was, but that could wait. He had something more important to get off his chest.

"I want you to treat me the same as you treat Griff and Ella," Artie said seriously, looking at his mother.

Nancy turned around from the stove, wiping her hands on a dishcloth as she looked at her son, wise beyond his nine years.

"Okay," She said gently. "We can do that, honey."

"I don't want to be babied. I want to…" Artie's voice trailed off. "I want to do chores."

Nancy couldn't help but laugh at that. Because it'd been like pulling teeth to get her boys to help out around the house in the past. But if there was anything that Artie had learned over the last few months, it was not to take his independence for granted. He wanted to have chores to do because he got to have chores to do. Everything was a gift now. He took pride in whatever he could do on his own, without anyone's help.

"Okay, my love, I hear you." She bent down to open the cabinet under the sink, retrieved a feather duster, and handed it to Artie. "How about you start by dusting in the living room and the foyer? When you're finished, come find me and I'll give you another job to do."

Artie beamed and nodded, setting the feather duster on his lap before quickly pivoting out of the room. He had a purpose. Somebody was counting on him. And, boy, did it feel good to have somebody depending on him again, instead of the other way around.