Page 93 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

Only the Weak Survive

Alex was annoyed with me. Again. It wasn’t my frustration, but how I reacted to that frustration, that was getting on his nerves. Of course, when a person kicks a butcher knife across the kitchen, nearly hitting another person’s bare foot, it’s bound to cause consternation. Sharp knives and bare flesh are often enemies.

When I had tried to chop the carrots for our dinner, my hand had twitched, the knife had slipped, and I’d nearly cut my thumb. Aggravated at yet another slip of my hand, I’d let the knife fall to the floor. Before it had even finished clattering against the cement floor in my apartment kitchen, I’d kicked it, sending it sailing across the kitchen. Alex had been walking in to see what had happened and the knife missed his foot by inches.

Alex knew that my fine motor skills were a bit off-kilter since my surgery, and that was frustrating for me. However, after nine days of dealing with my outbursts, he was obviously tired of them. Almost getting sliced by a speeding knife was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. As soon as I looked up from the floor and saw the expression on his face, I was sorry.

“You know,” Alex said, his voice intentionally controlled, “stabbing me won’t make things better faster.”

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly.

Alex stared at me for several moments. The sliced meat in the wok was sizzling behind me. A stir fry for dinner had been my idea. Alex had wanted to help, but I knew that I needed to learn to do things on my own. He’d been with me for the day of the surgery and the nine days that followed. Making sure that I was safe during my recovery was not an easy thing to ask of anyone. Alex, like me, was doing the best he could.

“I can make the dinner,” he said. “This was your idea.”

“I know.” I looked down at the floor.

Alex retrieved the knife from the other side of the kitchen, picking it up gently and walking it back over to me. He didn’t hand it to me, though. He set it in the sink carefully. Then he withdrew another knife from the block—a much smaller one—and handed it to me.

“Smaller, chunkier handle,” he said. “You aren’t a superhero. Start small.”

I slid the knife from his hand carefully, making sure I didn’t twitch and nick him with it.

“You can do it,” he said, flicking a finger at the carrots still waiting on the cutting board. “Just go slower.”

Taking a deep breath, then exhaling with intention, I turned and brought my nervously shaky hand up to hold one of the carrots on the board. I raised the hand with the knife and positioned it over the carrot. Slowly, I brought it down, cutting off a slice of the carrot. Not an even slice, but a slice. Then another. On the third slice, the knife slipped again, and I barely avoided cutting myself once more. Without a word, I shoved the cutting board, knife, and carrots into the sink.

Clattering loudly, my kitchen tools and the carrots came to rest at the bottom of the sink and I sat down. Right there in the kitchen. Turning to put my back against the cabinet under the sink, I pulled my knees up to my chest and glared at the stove across from me, but not really seeing anything but red. The color of my frustration.

Alex stood beside me for the longest time, watching me sit there and feel sorry for myself. Finally, with a sigh, he stepped over and turned off the stove burner so that the meat in the wok wouldn’t burn. He lowered himself to the floor with a grunt, sitting cross-legged in front of me, his back to the oven. I didn’t want to look up and meet his eyes, but I knew he would stay there until I did.

“Okay, fucker,” he said once our eyes met. “Let’s have a talk.”

The tears fell from my eyes immediately.

“It has been nearly two weeks,” I managed.

“And it might be two more,” he said, nodding. “And maybe two more after that. You know that.”

“I—”

“When a tumor gets cut out of someone’s brain,” Alex said, stopping me, “things aren’t just la-di-da perfect immediately. You just had people poking around in your brain. Time is needed for everything to settle and for your body to readjust. You need time to heal.”

“Alex—”

“We’re done with this,” he said, jabbing a finger at me. “I’ve given you nine days to feel sorry for yourself. That’s over. We’re done with that. Tough love time.”

I looked down at the floor again.

“Today is a new day, Enzo,” he said firmly. “You’re a new man. You have been for nine days. New men need to get used to having new lives. Your motor skills are not going to be perfect for a while. You’re going to drop things. Your handwriting is going to be wonky. Your knife skills are going to be imperfect. You might spill a spoonful of soup on yourself or dribble coffee down your chin. Maybe you’ll go to take a leak, twitch, and pee all over the shower door.”

I couldn’t help but give a small smile at that.

“So,” he growled, “you slow down and write with purpose. You’re extra careful while chopping vegetables and use a knife that won’t slice your finger off if you slip. You dab your shirt and chin clean—or wear a bib. Sit down to piss.”

I looked up at him.

“You fucking cope,” he said. “Just like you did while you had the fucking tumor. But there’s a big difference you’re ignoring here.”