2. Fischer

2

FISCHER

I take the pills and water Matty hands me after putting my laptop aside on the bed. "Thanks," I mumble before downing them both. I'm in the narcotic weaning process, which I realize makes me an asshole who's not showing nearly the level of appreciation my brother deserves after taking care of me for three months, even going so far as to leave the hotel room where he lives to move in with me so that I don't have to have a nurse come by every day to make sure I'm getting in and out of the shower safely.

At least he doesn't have to wash my ass anymore. Since the staples came out, I'm able to shower in relative privacy on my shower stool. Matty waits around, sitting on the toilet seat and acting as a spotter in case I lose my balance, which, I'm not proud to say, happens more than I like.

If he weren't here, there's almost no chance I would have tried to wean off the pills. The pain isn't half as bad as those first weeks, but it's still constant. Physical therapy is killing me, but even I can admit it's helping. I'm more confident on crutches, and weight bearing feels less like moving a mountain and more like a challenge I can win. Eventually.

"Need anything else before I shower?" Matty asks.

"Can you bring me a notepad and pen?"

"Sure."

I watch him leave the bedroom, his healthy twenty-year old body moving with ease. After his shower, around the time my pills kick in, he'll help me with my prescribed stretching routine, which I'd literally never do if Matty weren't here to make me.

Last week, I put together a document for him to look over involving what getting a degree in nursing would entail, but he balked at the prerequisites, claiming his ADHD was in direct conflict with formal schooling of any kind. To be clear, I don't care what he does for a living, but he keeps bringing it up—like he thinks he should be doing something more important than working at a hotel and dreaming up sculptures he doesn't have the time or the space to make.

He reappears with my requested items and asks if I want him to plug in my laptop. I put my hand protectively on the cover. "No," I insist. "I'm working on something."

He gives me that cute half-grin of his that says he thinks I'm neurotic as hell and proceeds to the bathroom. Since I can't report on the news in person, I have to write about it. At the moment, I'm working on a piece for The Atlantic about the political fallout from the recent cease-fire in the region where I was injured. The New York Times published an opinion piece today that I wrote last week, and I'm suddenly more motivated. Probably because I'm not high a hundred percent of the time anymore.

My phone rings while Matthew's still in the shower. Donna.

"Hey," I answer.

"Hey to you, too. How was your day?"

Our mom has taken to calling us both every night to check in.

"Good," I tell her. "Staying busy."

"How's your pain?"

"On a scale of one to ten?"

"In general."

"It's okay. I hate to say I'm getting used to it, but…"

"It'll get better," she assures me. "Matty says he's helping with your exercises?"

I grimace. I appreciate Donna's motherly love—really. Who knows where I'd be without her? Still, I'm a thirty-three year old man, and I've been living on my own for over a decade now. These checkins make me feel like a difficult child who has trouble following the rules. When I shared that with Matthew some weeks back, he said she was probably confusing me with him.

I don't know much about what Matty was like as a kid, but what I do know is that he's meticulous as an adult. Compulsively clean, keeps a solid schedule, and always does what he says he's going to do. He's giving up a lot to help me out—nights out with friends, dating—sex, but he never complains. Not to me anyway.

"He's been great, yes," I tell her.

"I was wondering if you'd mind if I get him a comfier place to sleep. Maybe a fold out? It can't be easy for him all crunched up on that couch with his long legs."

"I'm not making him sleep on the couch," I say with a look on my face I wish she could see. I'm not a fucking sadist.

"Where does he sleep, then? He made it sound like he's staying with you."

"He is. He sleeps in the bed."

"With you ?"

I flinch at the tone of her voice. "Yeah."

"Did you get a bigger bed?"

"No…"

"Then…Fischer. Is that…is it not odd ?"

"I don't know, Donna," I frown. "Is it odd?"

"Two grown men…I just think about what it looks like…"

"To who?" I ask.

"I—you're right." She lets out a dismissive laugh. "You're brothers."

"Uh-huh." I don't know about her, but I'd like to end this call as soon as possible. "Anyway, I have this article I'm in the middle of writing. I hope you don't mind if I cut this short."

"Oh, of course not. I was just checking in."

"Thanks. Have a good night," I tell her.

"You, too. I love you."

"Same to you. Bye."

We hang up, and I toss the phone to Matthew's side of the bed, which now all of a sudden, I'm questioning. Was that judgment in her tone, or just surprise? It's hard to tell with her. We haven't been close in a long time, especially not since I told her I'd managed to find my birth mother.

I met Joyce Alexander when I was twenty-two. I was studying journalism and was getting damn good at research. My curiosity was borderline reckless back then—before I learned that there are some things I'm better off not knowing. If my mom knew about Joyce, I could see why she didn't want me to meet her.

She was in prison serving one of many sentences for assault—a heroin addict turned prostitute. Fun fact: I was born on Riker's Island, which at least meant that Joyce was sober during most of the pregnancy. She assured me of that at least thirty times during our one-hour visit.

She had no clue who my father was. He could be any white guy in the world, and I know that because she was also really clear on how she only ever turned tricks for white guys. I left feeling both disgusted with her and sorry for her—saved by the grace of Richard and Donna Cannon from the suburbs, who may or may not regret adopting me. It's not like I ever made their lives any easier.

Matthew comes out of the bathroom in his usual starter sleepwear. A t-shirt and boxer briefs. I've never seen him wake up with the shirt on, but he's like a human space heater. I wake up sweating, too, but I think it's more a result of the narcotics I'm on—the early morning withdrawal.

"Donna wants to get you a fold-out sofa," I tell him.

"Did she say that?" He's using a towel to dry his dark wavy hair that looks black when it's wet.

"Is it odd that we sleep in the same bed?"

He freezes mid head rub and gives me a puzzled look. "Are you asking because I'm queer?"

"No," I say. If anyone can understand the spectrum of sexuality, it's me. "But do you think that's why she was asking?"

"What did she say?" he asks.

"It was more of an implication about two grown men sharing a bed."

He rolls his eyes and returns to the bathroom to hang up the towel. "She needs to not worry about where I lay my head down. If she knew what I know about me, she wouldn't be so quick to ask questions she won't like the answers to."

I laugh. I kinda love Matty's attitude about Donna. As much as I let her meddle in my personal business these days, he's like a wall with her. Whenever I've listened in on his end of their conversations, it's a bunch of sounds of agreement and one word answers. Like he's barely listening to her. I wish I could shut her out like that. It's my guilt that trips me up.

I owe a lot to her, especially since I turned on her when Matty and Maggie were born. But my near death experience and all those nights I spent in the hospital waking up to see her or my dad worrying at my bedside had me determined to do better by them. At least give them a better chance at being involved with me than I have in the past.

"You don't have to stay here every night, you know," I tell him, in case he thinks I'm trapping him here inappropriately, too.

He waves this off and kneels at the foot of the bed, ready to put me through my paces. "Once I get my legal ID, maybe I'll go out more."

"What difference does that make?" I ask as he picks up my left foot and rotates my ankle in circles. I can, of course, do this part of the exercise myself, but he makes me lazy. Or maybe it's the drugs kicking in.

"Makes me feel weird. Lying to people about my age when they want to go to a bar. It'd be amazing if you and I didn't have to talk about this."

I grin. "Fine." It's not like I want him sleeping somewhere else. I'd worry. He's so young, and as a former young person myself, I know I made some dumb mistakes—trusted some questionable people. I've been lucky mostly, but there were a couple of guys I hooked up with back in the day that were not at all as easy-going as their online profiles indicated they'd be. Women, too, but women are better in general about taking no for an answer.

"Pills kicking in?" he asks.

With effort, I refocus my gaze from his hands on my leg to his face. His hands feel so good, though. "How can you tell?"

"Your eyelids."

"Stretch me, baby," I say.

He snorts. "Okay, that's odd."

I laugh with him. "It was too good. I had to." Letting my eyes close, I relax into the pillows and savor the warmth of his touch.

In the hospital, all the hands-on interactions I had with nurses and therapists put me on edge and left me drenched in sweat. It wasn't just the pain—it was the constant touching—strangers with their hands on me without permission. The beginnings of PTSD kicking in, probably. I was told by a psychiatrist to expect some extreme reactions to relatively normal stimuli.

But the truth is I've been repelling touch and affection since the twins were born, deliberately making a teenage island of myself. I stopped hugging my parents entirely and developed a sort of touch me and prepare to have your throat punched vibe.

I have to assume I spent the first few months of my life not being held much—like one of those monkeys they used to do experiments on. God only knows what I was like when the Cannons adopted me. I can't imagine I was an easy baby, but I've never asked.

And yet, I'd do this three times a day with Matty if he made me.

It's always been all or nothing with me. You're either allowed in, like Matthew, or please get the fuck away from me and take two more steps back. It's why I almost always fuck strangers from behind. Eye contact makes them feel too close. It's not an aversion. I just like to have a choice in the matter. Most often, my choice is a handshake or a head nod.

Matthew bends my knee, as gently as he can, aiming it at my abs. It's a dull ache as the muscles around my thighbone strain and reject the movement. I groan, and he stops. "We have a safe word for a reason."

"I know , Matty. I can't help if I make noise."

He pushes further until I finally blurt, "Pulitzer."

Then he backs off.

We go through the same stretch the prescribed five times before moving on to a lateral hip stretch, which isn't nearly as awful. "You're getting way more flexible," he notes, some pride creeping into his tone.

"When I was on the lacrosse team, I could do center splits."

He gives me a hazy blink. "Yeah?"

I nod, letting him rotate my thigh to the left with his warm, gentle hands, bracing both sides of my quad just above the knee. My scars are red and ugly, but they don't seem to bother him. The worst and largest is the one above my knee, where an entire chunk of flesh is missing. The sizable dent is even more disfiguring than the fact that I only have one remaining testicle. I blame my missing pieces for my persistent lack of stability.

I tend to overcompensate with my right side. Hence the reason I still have to shower on a damn stool.

"Any other special talents?" he asks.

"None I want to mention right now."

I get another eye roll for that. "Finish your water, weirdo. It's time for bed. I have to be at work at seven."

Thunder rolls outside, and we both turn to the window as lighting flashes. He climbs over my leg to get to his phone on the nightstand. Tucking himself beneath the sheets, he opens up his phone to check the forecast.

"Ugh. It's raining all day tomorrow," he says.

"Take an Uber. My treat."

"We're like thirty seconds from the subway. It's faster anyway."

"Would it kill you to accept a gift from me?"

"Maybe."

I put all my things on my own nightstand and switch off the lamp. Matthew does the same, turning his back to me as I do the same. There's at least a foot of space between us, even on the queen sized bed, so Donna can chill the fuck out. I let out a breath filled with frustration and try to breathe in one more relaxing.

"‘Night," he says.

That helps. My shoulders relax, and I sink into the pillow. "Good night."