So he learned. He watched the nurses, then copied everything they did. He took notes in an old notebook. How to roll me without hurting myself. How to check my skin. How to lift me as if I were both heavy and fragile.
The first night at home, his alarm clock went off every two hours.
He lingered in my room, his hair a mess.
“It’s pancake time,” he mumbled, turning me gently.
He argued with the speakerphone-wielding confidence, pacing back and forth in the kitchen.
“I know,” he whispered. “I’m here for you, baby.”
He built a plywood ramp so my wheelchair could get through the front door. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked.
He was arguing with the assurance over the speakerphone, pacing back and forth in the kitchen.
“No, she can’t ‘manage’ without a shower chair,” he said. “Do you want to tell her that yourself?”
Our neighbor, Mrs. Patel, started bringing out casseroles and hovering around us.
“She needs friends,” she told him.
“She mostly needs not to break her neck on your stairs,” he grumbled, but later he was parading me around the block and introducing me to every kid like I was his VIP.
The kids stared. The parents looked away.
A girl my age came up and asked, “Why can’t you walk?”
Ray crouched down next to me. “Her legs don’t listen to her brain. But she can beat you at cards.”
The girl smiled. “No, she can’t.”
It was Zoe. My first real friend.
Ray often did that. He'd put himself in front of the awkwardness and make it less intense. When I was ten, I found a chair in the garage with some wool taped to the back, half-braided.
“Nothing. Don't touch it.”
That night, Ray sat on my bed behind me, his hands shaking.
“Don't move,” he muttered, trying to braid my hair.
It was awful. I thought my heart would explode.
“These girls talk really fast.”
When puberty hit, he came into my room with a plastic bag and a red face.
“I bought… stuff,” he said, staring at the ceiling. “For when things happen.”
Towels, deodorant, cheap mascara.
“You've been watching YouTube,” I said.
He grimaced. “These girls talk really fast.”
“Can you hear me? You're no less.”
