I didn’t know how long I sat in a half-lean position, staring blankly at my phone, but it was long enough that my shoulder hurt from carrying my weight for so long. I shook my head and tried to squeeze the thoughts out of my mind, but they wouldn’t go. Throwing myself back on the pillow, I checked the time. It was barely seven, but I knew she would be awake by now. She always was.
“Hello?” Lana said, moments later. “Gerard?”
“Hey, Mom,” I said.
“Gerry, what’s wrong?”
She might not have been a biological mother, but the maternal instinct in Lana was as strong as any I had ever known. She gave the best hugs, made the best cookies, and always knew what to say when I was having a bad day. It was why I dialed her number by heart rather than looking through the contacts. I had done it so many times that it was like a reflex.
I spilled out everything about Malia to her over the course of a twenty-minute conversation, and like always, she listened to me and kept her interruptions short but supportive. I couldn’t thank her enough for it, and though I still had doubts and gnawing feelings, memories that wouldn’t let go, when I was off the phone, I did feel a little bit better.
Getting up, I tried to shake it all off in the shower. Trying to focus on the things that I could control rather than the ones I couldn’t, I went through a whole routine of shaving and trimming my hair. Grooming, it turned out, was almost meditative. Then, when I was looking fresh and clean-cut, I decided I needed to get a workout in.
The little gym I built for myself was still pretty basic. I had a treadmill and a weight bench. Dumbbells sat on a tree against the wall, and it all provided me enough to use to get a basic workout in. Hitting the treadmill first, I tried to run off some of the nervous energy that my nightmare brought me. When I was huffing and puffing about a half hour later, I hopped down to get some weights in.
By the time I looked at the clock again, I had been in my gym room for well over an hour and a half and was going to need another rinse in the shower. Laughing at myself for being silly enough to shower before working out, I made my way back and turned the water on as hot as I could manage. This time, it actually relaxed me, and when I stepped out again, the bad thoughts had gone.
I made my way into the kitchen and briefly contemplated trying to remember how Malia had made the breakfast we had at her place. It was certainly better than anything I could do, and I strongly suspected it had something to do with a jar of what I could only assume was bacon fat in the refrigerator.
Deciding not to test myself, I opened up the cabinet and brought out the cereal. Sugary-sweet crap food would have to do, like it usually did. Unless I wanted to go all the way out to Dina’s.
As I sat down with the bowl of cereal, cruising through the news sites I tended to check on my phone, a text popped up. I grinned when I saw it was Malia.
“Headed to my appointment. Call you when I get out.”
It was followed by several emojis that I wasn’t entirely sure what their inclusion meant, and I sent one back in hopes it was a proper response. I had never really gotten the hang of emojis, to be honest. It always felt weird sending them. GIFs I understood, though, and I fired off one of those immediately after.
With something to look forward to on a rare weekday off, I went about doing some of the chores I tended to put off to the weekend. Captain Clovis seemed to be pleased to have me around during the day and kept getting between my legs, and eventually, I took the hint and sat down so he could hop in my lap. We were happily curled up when my phone rang, and I grabbed it.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” said Malia. There was something in her voice that triggered what I assumed were the same concerned thoughts from me that I assumed Lana had when I called her. Something was wrong. I could sense it.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Is everything okay?”
“Bad news,” she said, sighing. “I hate it.”
“Oh no. What happened?”
“There’s a hitch in my plans. Apparently, the stump isn’t completely healed over yet. They can’t fit me for my prosthetic yet.”
“That’s terrible,” I said. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I did everything I was supposed to, to take care of it. But they say it happens sometimes. They need to test the sensitivity of my skin and check my muscle strength again in a bit. Not sure how long, actually.”