Carlton tried to be excited for Thanksgiving dinner. He spent all day attempting to convince himself that it would be fun to have Marlowe bring Lily to the hospital for dinner. And that it was nice that his mom and Althea could make it for the night. He spent all day trying to be grateful that he was still alive, that he had made it to Thanksgiving in the first place. He tried to be grateful that the nurses had allowed Marlowe and Lily to come for the afternoon and be glad that he was conscious enough to recognize that they had come.

And yet, from the second they walked in the door, the only feeling he was conscious enough to have was shame. Shame and embarrassment. He was embarrassed that every time he had to go to the bathroom, he needed help from a twenty-something-year-old nurse. He was embarrassed that he had become so grossly incompetent that he couldn't even leave his bed on his own, and that he would have to spend the entire meal slouched over on the chair where he had been placed, his atrophied abdominal muscles too weak to hold him upright. And he was mortified that not even a minute into their visit, he had already made Lily cry when she tried to hug him because his stupid body couldn't even handle that without doubling over.

Pathetic. The voice reminded him. The voice that haunted his dreams and turned every waking hour into a living nightmare.

You made your daughter cry? What the hell is wrong with you? What kind of father does that?

He tried to talk to Marlowe as Lily drifted off in his lap, but he didn't know what to say. And conversation, just like everything else, quickly exhausted him.

"How are you feeling?" Marlowe asked.

You can't tell her that.

"How has therapy been?" She tried.

You want to tell her how close you are to sitting up?

"You look really good," Marlowe said.

But even if he could feel her love through her hand on his, he couldn't bring himself to accept it.

Yeah, right. You look good. The voice mocked him, a deep laugh filling the room around him, making it difficult to think. She's just saying that. How could she possibly think you look good, slouched over on this chair with a giant tube coming out of your nose? And this stupid helmet covering the giant hole in your head. You still can barely even breathe properly. You're still stuck with this oxygen on your face.

He was almost grateful when his mom and Althea came, putting an end to the awkward small talk with the woman he used to be able to tell anything to.

Almost.

But when his mom did come, he was faced with a whole new wave of embarrassment as his mother looked at him like he was fragile. And in her wrinkled eyes, he understood what that meant for her. Because if he was fragile- his world shattered without warning in a single moment, then what did that make her?

He had spent the last month and a half feeling like he was made of glass. But if he was made of glass, his mother was a house of cards. If he could fall at any moment and break into a million pieces, the slightest gust of wind was sure to knock his mother down. The second she walked in the door that became painfully clear, and it was more than he could process.

She's looking at you like a child again, the voice reminded him. Because really, what's the difference?

"Hi Binky!" his mom said, followed by Althea. She was acting normal, even if her face told a different story. A born and raised Irish Catholic, she had never been one to outwardly express her true emotions. But Carlton had learned the little twitches on her face that screamed louder than any words she would ever say. And he was slowly beginning to categorize them again too.

Words floated around his head, and he tried to listen. He wanted to engage. They asked him questions and tried to respond. But his tongue felt too heavy in his mouth. And his brain felt sluggish and clouded. The room was somehow too dark and too bright all at the same time. They were speaking too loud and too quiet. Too fast and too slow. By the time he tried to start a sentence, the conversation had either moved on or he had forgotten what he was trying to say. He couldn't comprehend the simplest words being directed towards him. He knew they were speaking English, but still it felt foreign to him.

And he was exhausted. It took every ounce of energy just to try and track the conversation, and his excessively limited reserve was quickly depleted. He stuck to one word responses, more focused on keeping his eyes open as the conversation continued than participating in the conversation. He hated the way his robotic voice echoed in his head. It sounded wrong. It felt wrong.

It all felt wrong.

They all came to see you. The voice reminded him, talking over Lily complaining about peas. And you can't even talk to them. Pathetic.

Pathetic.

You're so damn pathetic.

It didn't help when the nurse came in to start his formula feed through the giant feeding tube that stuck out of his nose and scratched the back of his throat every time he swallowed. Of course Lily was going to be curious about it. She was four years old. That's only natural. But it didn't make him feel any less mortified when she made a big show of how disgusting it smelled. Which was fair- it smelled absolutely awful.

The conversation cautiously picked up again after the nurse left, words floating around his head, too far away for him to make sense of any of them. Althea was in the middle of a story from when she used to work at a bank when Lily cut in.

"Can we do grapefuls?" Lily asked, interrupting Althea's story.

"What are grapefuls?" Althea asked Lily, craning her neck to see the little girl sitting on her lap.

"Ms. Christy told us that we do grapefuls on Thanksgiving to tell people thank you."

"Oh, grateful!" Althea said, laughing.

"Of course, Lily," Marlowe said. "What are you grateful for, baby?"

"I'm grapeful that we get to see Daddy because I miss Daddy when we are at home and he has to stay at the hospital."

Lily slid down Althea's lap and came over to give Carlton a hug.

Carlton looked up at Marlowe, whose dark eyes looked exhausted. It was an emotion he could recognize quickly on his wife's face as it seemed to be the only one she had anymore. That and sad. He kissed his baby on the head and saw everyone else watching him, tears in their eyes.

He felt sorry. Sorry for himself and sorry for them. He was stuck in these four walls. He hadn't stepped outside in over a month. He hadn't taken a step on his own in over a month either. He was stuck in bed, feeling completely dependent and useless. He hadn't gotten a full night of sleep since he was brought out of his coma. Every time he finally felt alone his quiet was interrupted either by a nurse shining a bright light in his eyes or by the dark figure in the corner, reminding him what a pathetic little baby he was being.

"I am very grateful we get to see Daddy today too," Marlowe said, her hand subconsciously tracing the looping cross on her neck. "I'm grateful that Daddy is here today to celebrate with us too."

He wanted to feel grateful. He wanted to be thankful that he was alive. But he just felt embarrassed. And exhausted. And he was starting to wish he wasn't there at all.