crossmyheartandhope (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2020-01-16 09:16 pm
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2020-01-16 09:16 pm
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Memory 20: Look, kid. You doing okay?
The living room is minimal and modern, the black couch a study in sleek lines. There’s a glass end table and a tv mounted on the wall, and in the middle of the available floor space, a man is kneeling over a case of tools laid out like surgical implements, immaculate and gleaming.
He’s tall and lanky, a little disheveled in a wrinkled button-up and and slacks. Whatever he’s been doing, he’s done with it; he’s wiping the tools down, one at a time, and tucking them away again in a sturdy briefcase of hard, black plastic.
“That should be the last one, kid.” The man glances up and smiles. “Next time I bring it by, it’s yours to keep.”
“Thanks, Mr. Allen,” says Hurricane. He's all of ten years old, and the leg stretched out in front of him as he sits on the floor is thin and gangly. The other leg, the missing one, is capped with an empty metal port, and the scars above it on the thigh are thick and ugly — still new.
The man sets a metal leg into the box beside the tools, in the indent in the foam meant to hold it.
“You okay on the crutches another week?” says Mr. Allen. “Last couple of adjustments shouldn’t take too long, but you know Dr. Scultz. She wants everything perfect.”
“Yeah,” says Hurricane. “I know. One more week’s no big.” He picks at the bottom of his t-shirt with his fingernail while Mr. Allen closes the briefcase. “Tell her thanks for me? And like, you too.”
“No problem, kid.” Mr. Allen reaches out to ruffle Hurricane’s hair. “Gotta make sure you’ve got the Cadillac of legs, right?”
Mr. Allen stands, briefcase in hand. Hurricane goes for the crutches on the floor beside him and levers himself back up, with some difficulty.
“So, uh,” says Mr. Allen. “Your mom coming back to work anytime soon? Boss lady’s been asking for a timeline.”
Hurricane glances away toward the floor — shrugs.
“You mind if I grab her for a sec before I head out?”
“She might be sleeping,” says Hurricane. He hesitates, then adds: “She’s pretty tired lately.”
A beat of silence passes. Hurricane keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the floor.
“Tell you what,” says Mr. Allen. “How bout I knock on her door, and if she’s sleeping I won’t bug her.”
Hurricane glances up to check his face — takes in the expression there, pained but surprisingly gentle. “Yeah,” he says at last. “Sure. She’s, uh. The one at the end of the hall.”
Mr. Allen says, “Thanks, kid.” He heads off down the hall, and a minute later, there’s the soft sound of knuckles rapping on wood.
“Dr. Cross?” says Mr. Allen. Then, a beat later: “Lydia?”
Hurricane can’t hear the answer, but Mr. Allen says, “You mind if I come in?”
The door clicks open, and then closed again.
Hurricane makes his careful way around to the couch and flops onto it on his back, looking up at the ceiling, his sole remaining leg splayed out long.
A minute ticks by, and then two. He can hear voices from down the hall, the soft murmur of conversation not quite loud enough for the words to be more than a background noise.
At last, the door clicks open and then closed again. Mr. Allen reappears in the hallway, more subdued than he was before.
Hurricane sits up. “She say when she’s going back?”
“Nah,” says Mr Allen. He opens his mouth, like he wants to say something, but then closes it again and looks away.
“Here,” says Hurricane, and goes for the crutches. “Lemme walk you out.”
Mr. Allen waits for him to stand up, even though it takes a couple of seconds. “Look, kid,” he says, at length. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah,” says Hurricane, starting to make his way over to the door. “Hardly hurts anymore.”
“Not that,” says Mr. Allen. “I just mean, it can be hard to go it alone. You know?”
“I’m doing okay,” says Hurricane. “And anyway. Who says I’m alone?”
He comes to a stop by the door, and Mr. Allen pauses there beside him.
“Right,” says Mr. Allen at last. “You’ve got your mom.”
“Yeah,” says Hurricane. “Exactly.”
Mr. Allen searches him over for a long few seconds, eyes piercing. Finally he sighs. “Your mom’s not doing so hot right now. You know that, right?”
Hurricane presses his lips together. “She’s trying.”
“Yeah,” says Mr. Allen. “But you need a whole lot more than trying.”
Hurricane ducks his head.
“Thanks for coming by,” he says, and his voice isn’t quite steady. He shifts his weight to his left foot, leaning hard on just one of the crutches so he can get the door open with his other hand. “Next week for the upgrades, right?”
“Yeah,” says Mr. Allen. “But look, kid.”
“We’ll be fine,” says Hurricane, a little too quickly. “I’ll be fine.”
He meets Mr. Allen’s gaze this time — holds it.
At last, slowly, Mr. Allen nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”
He walks out the open door, into an exposed walkway that reveals banks of similar apartments stretching in both directions, looking out over a courtyard far below that’s open to the sky.
“See you next week, kid.”
“Yeah,” says Hurricane. “See you next week.”
And he closes the door.
He’s tall and lanky, a little disheveled in a wrinkled button-up and and slacks. Whatever he’s been doing, he’s done with it; he’s wiping the tools down, one at a time, and tucking them away again in a sturdy briefcase of hard, black plastic.
“That should be the last one, kid.” The man glances up and smiles. “Next time I bring it by, it’s yours to keep.”
“Thanks, Mr. Allen,” says Hurricane. He's all of ten years old, and the leg stretched out in front of him as he sits on the floor is thin and gangly. The other leg, the missing one, is capped with an empty metal port, and the scars above it on the thigh are thick and ugly — still new.
The man sets a metal leg into the box beside the tools, in the indent in the foam meant to hold it.
“You okay on the crutches another week?” says Mr. Allen. “Last couple of adjustments shouldn’t take too long, but you know Dr. Scultz. She wants everything perfect.”
“Yeah,” says Hurricane. “I know. One more week’s no big.” He picks at the bottom of his t-shirt with his fingernail while Mr. Allen closes the briefcase. “Tell her thanks for me? And like, you too.”
“No problem, kid.” Mr. Allen reaches out to ruffle Hurricane’s hair. “Gotta make sure you’ve got the Cadillac of legs, right?”
Mr. Allen stands, briefcase in hand. Hurricane goes for the crutches on the floor beside him and levers himself back up, with some difficulty.
“So, uh,” says Mr. Allen. “Your mom coming back to work anytime soon? Boss lady’s been asking for a timeline.”
Hurricane glances away toward the floor — shrugs.
“You mind if I grab her for a sec before I head out?”
“She might be sleeping,” says Hurricane. He hesitates, then adds: “She’s pretty tired lately.”
A beat of silence passes. Hurricane keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the floor.
“Tell you what,” says Mr. Allen. “How bout I knock on her door, and if she’s sleeping I won’t bug her.”
Hurricane glances up to check his face — takes in the expression there, pained but surprisingly gentle. “Yeah,” he says at last. “Sure. She’s, uh. The one at the end of the hall.”
Mr. Allen says, “Thanks, kid.” He heads off down the hall, and a minute later, there’s the soft sound of knuckles rapping on wood.
“Dr. Cross?” says Mr. Allen. Then, a beat later: “Lydia?”
Hurricane can’t hear the answer, but Mr. Allen says, “You mind if I come in?”
The door clicks open, and then closed again.
Hurricane makes his careful way around to the couch and flops onto it on his back, looking up at the ceiling, his sole remaining leg splayed out long.
A minute ticks by, and then two. He can hear voices from down the hall, the soft murmur of conversation not quite loud enough for the words to be more than a background noise.
At last, the door clicks open and then closed again. Mr. Allen reappears in the hallway, more subdued than he was before.
Hurricane sits up. “She say when she’s going back?”
“Nah,” says Mr Allen. He opens his mouth, like he wants to say something, but then closes it again and looks away.
“Here,” says Hurricane, and goes for the crutches. “Lemme walk you out.”
Mr. Allen waits for him to stand up, even though it takes a couple of seconds. “Look, kid,” he says, at length. “You doing okay?”
“Yeah,” says Hurricane, starting to make his way over to the door. “Hardly hurts anymore.”
“Not that,” says Mr. Allen. “I just mean, it can be hard to go it alone. You know?”
“I’m doing okay,” says Hurricane. “And anyway. Who says I’m alone?”
He comes to a stop by the door, and Mr. Allen pauses there beside him.
“Right,” says Mr. Allen at last. “You’ve got your mom.”
“Yeah,” says Hurricane. “Exactly.”
Mr. Allen searches him over for a long few seconds, eyes piercing. Finally he sighs. “Your mom’s not doing so hot right now. You know that, right?”
Hurricane presses his lips together. “She’s trying.”
“Yeah,” says Mr. Allen. “But you need a whole lot more than trying.”
Hurricane ducks his head.
“Thanks for coming by,” he says, and his voice isn’t quite steady. He shifts his weight to his left foot, leaning hard on just one of the crutches so he can get the door open with his other hand. “Next week for the upgrades, right?”
“Yeah,” says Mr. Allen. “But look, kid.”
“We’ll be fine,” says Hurricane, a little too quickly. “I’ll be fine.”
He meets Mr. Allen’s gaze this time — holds it.
At last, slowly, Mr. Allen nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”
He walks out the open door, into an exposed walkway that reveals banks of similar apartments stretching in both directions, looking out over a courtyard far below that’s open to the sky.
“See you next week, kid.”
“Yeah,” says Hurricane. “See you next week.”
And he closes the door.