Charlie smashed two pills onto his kitchen counter with the back of his spoon, swept the powder into his glass, and sipped his dinner through a thick bubble-tea straw, telling himself he’d never take chewing for granted again. (He would.) His jaw was still wired shut, but at least he was out of the hospital and recovering at home. The doctors said he was lucky the break was clean and he didn’t need surgery to reset his jaw. The police said he was lucky his assailant didn’t have a gun or a knife. Rex said he was lucky he didn’t bust his perfect nose or screw up his handsome face too badly. But Charlie didn’t feel lucky—far from it.
In the two weeks since the attack his swollen cheeks and neck had been a kaleidoscope of colours: black, blue, green, yellow, brown. The pain was bearable with narcotics, but the bleeding, drooling, and his inability to speak wore him down. He was also recovering from two cracked ribs. He’d lost two weeks’ wages and his return to work was a ways off yet. If he were able to open his mouth, he’d scream about it.
He set down the glass on the floor and stared at it from the couch. Usually he made fruit and yogurt smoothies, but today he’d tried something new and puréed boiled chicken and brown rice with stock in a blender. How did babies tolerate this crap? It looked like vomit and tasted only marginally better. But he sunk into his battered old couch feeling some relief, knowing the drugs would soon take the edge off the ever-present throbbing in his face and neck.
The wires would come out in four weeks, and then he’d need to have his broken and cracked teeth assessed. He was scared to see the inside of his mouth and flat-out dreaded going to the dentist, not to mention the bill that would follow. He hadn’t been in his job long enough to qualify for dental benefits, so it would all come out of his own pockets, which weren’t deep to begin with. He stared at the chunky beige mush in his glass on the floor and though he knew he needed the calories, he couldn’t bring himself to take another sip.
When he was a boy and sick, his grandmother doted on him even more than usual. She’d flatten ginger ale to calm his stomach and cook chicken soup from scratch when he had a cold. If he tried hard, he could almost smell that soup simmering now.
Jeopardy played on the TV, but Charlie only glanced at it occasionally. “I’ll take Speedy Recovery for five hundred, Alex,” he said in his mind, unable to vocalize the words. He lay in his basement apartment staring at the ceiling, noticing bubbling and peeling caused by water damage that some previous tenant had unsuccessfully tried to mask with paint. There were a hundred other things he could and should be doing but wasn’t. The police were urging him to come down to the station with more details about the guy from the bar, but there was zero chance Charlie would do that. There were also messages from his grandma and Nell, old friends and new—voice mails, texts, and emails, asking him over and over again what was going on. It seemed everyone in his life thought he owed them an explanation—everyone except his grandpa, who was the only person not trying to reach him. For once Grandpa’s icing him out was a blessing. As for the rest of them, Charlie could see no reason to burden anyone with his problems. There wasn’t anything they could do to help, anyway. He’d gotten himself into this mess, and he’d get himself out. In two quick texts to Nell and his grandma he said he was just taking some time for himself to mull over the news of his new brother and they shouldn’t worry about him. Honestly, he was doing them a favour. And besides, Alex could be a shiny new distraction if they needed one.
His doorbell rang. He ignored it. A fist pounded.
“Charles, you there? Let me in.”
Charlie slowly rose off the couch and walked up the stairs to open the door for Rex. He appreciated the visit, but being unable to talk made it hard to entertain.
“Hey, bro. You feeling any better?” Rex asked, pushing a bag of groceries towards Charlie. Charlie shrugged and took the bag into the kitchen. He emptied bananas, oatmeal, and homogenized milk onto his countertop. He wanted to say thanks for the baby food, but the words were literally trapped in his mouth. He grabbed a notepad and pen and joined Rex in the living room.
Wanna watch the hockey game? he wrote.
“How about we watch it at the bar? Get you out of this rabbit hole for a few hours.” Rex looked at him hopefully. Charlie couldn’t blame him for asking. His sheets and towels hadn’t been laundered in weeks, and his hamper was overflowing with dirty clothes. His apartment must have smelled funky, and he supposed he did too. They both needed airing out.
Not ready yet, Charlie wrote in reply. He hadn’t been able to shave, was still bruised, and couldn’t remember the last time he’d showered. The days were a blur. He slept fitfully and at random hours, waking each time his body rolled onto his left side where he’d been kicked in the ribs, or when his face made contact with the pillow. But it wasn’t just his appearance, pain, and fatigue keeping him at home. He didn’t want to run into horseshoe mustache again.
“Okay man, I’ll lay off for now. But soon I’m going to get you off your lazy ass,” Rex said, grabbing the remote and settling into Charlie’s sole armchair.
They watched the game in mostly companionable silence interrupted only by the sound of Rex chewing Doritos and cheering when the Oilers scored. At the end of the second period, Charlie reached for the notepad. Thanks for the food, bro. I’ll pay you back. Promise.
“Don’t worry about that now,” Rex said. “I need you recovered and back at work ASAP. Just get better. The new guys aren’t as chill as you.” Rex and Charlie were hired and trained together, but already they’d been displaced as the junior guys on the crew by even newer hires.
Can you do me one more solid? Fill a Rx? Charlie wrote. He pulled a fresh prescription from his pocket, and then shook the empty pill bottle on his side table.
“What the fuck, man? That was supposed to last you four to six weeks. You need to slow down, Charles. That shit’s addictive.”
Please? The pain’s brutal, Charlie wrote. He tilted his head to the side, widened his eyes as big as they’d go, and pressed the palms of his hands together in front of his chest like he was praying. He desperately needed more narcotics.
“I’d whack you upside the head if you weren’t already so pathetic,” Rex replied. “All right. I’ll fill it tomorrow.”
Thx man. You’re a good friend, he wrote, and then laid the notepad and pen on the floor. The narcotics had kicked in. Charlie relaxed into his couch for the third period.