Page 24 of That's Not a Thing

For the remainder of the meal, I stand beside Aaron, serving beans and glancing at the kitchen door, waiting to see Wesley emerge. The minutes pass, but he doesn’t come back out. As the final trays are emptied, Katie Sue directs us to start cleaning up, and I determine that Wesley must have left again, just like last week. I try to squelch the disappointment I feel as I remind myself that if I want to continue coming to this soup kitchen, I need to get used to this, to simply seeing Wesley in passing. Maybe we’ll talk one day, and maybe we won’t. I have to learn not to care.

The other volunteers are collecting the large aluminum trays that had held the food, and I follow their lead. A few patrons still linger at the long rectangular tables in the gym, savoring their meals, putting off their return to the cold winter air outside. As we finish clearing, Garth and Aaron begin folding down the table legs and carrying the tables to the storeroom at the back of the gym.

I walk my large platters into the kitchen, using my elbow to push open the swinging door. I scan the kitchen for Wesley in spite of myself and find myself disappointed yet again. Marlene the nurse and another woman are at the large sink basins, hosing down the greasy trays, and I make my way toward them with my stack.

The door to the street opens, and then Wesley is there, carrying a cardboard box. He doesn’t notice me as he makes his way toward the back of the kitchen and puts his box down next to a hulking turkey breast. He doesn’t hear my heart pounding in my chest. Judging by the bags of bread protruding from the box he was carrying, I deduce that he is going to be making sandwiches. He doesn’t look up as he puts on latex gloves and begins slicing the turkey breast, so I take the opportunity to study his profile.

For the most part, he looks the same, just older. A little thinner than he was a few years ago, I think. His golden hair is still cut close to his head, flipped up at the front just enough to make you wonder if there’s gel holding it in place. I see that he still wears his grandfather’s gold necklace with the Jewish star. It dangles loosely from his neck as he leans over the turkey, slicing mechanically, over and over.

He must feel my eyes on him because he looks up and our gazes connect again. I see no option but to walk over.

“Hey,” I say as I approach.

“Hey,” he responds, putting his knife down on the counter. He opens and closes the fist that was holding it, wincing just a little as he does. I can’t tell whether it’s the hand or my presence that’s causing him pain.

“Katie Sue told me about the program you started. It sounds amazing. Really great.” Now I want to wince, annoyed by how stilted I sound, how awkward I’m making this.

“Yeah, thanks,” he says, reticent as he regards me.

“And the restaurant,” I add, trying to be upbeat. “I’m so happy everything worked out for you.”

“Not everything,” he says, looking down at me. He moves his hand off the counter, and for a split second I think he’s reaching out for me, but he just starts clenching and unclenching his fist again, like it’s stiff and he’s doing some sort of exercise.

“Hey.” Aaron’s voice is strong as he approaches from behind me. I didn’t even hear the door to the kitchen open, and I’d be lying if I said I don’t feel like I’ve been busted. Aaron wraps an arm around my waist possessively, and I resist the urge to shrug him off, to step closer to Wesley.

“You remember Wesley from the restaurant, right?” I ask Aaron, amazed that I am able to sound so calm, gracious, even.

“Of course,” Aaron says. He starts reaching out to shake hands but then notices Wesley’s rubber gloves and puts his hand back on me. “Mer told me about the work-place-readiness program. It sounds really terrific.”

“Thanks,” Wesley says. “It’s been good.” His eyes rove over Aaron, and I can see he’s sizing him up—the oversize muscles, the chiseled jaw. I feel proud for a moment to let Wesley see the man who has chosen me, chosen to stay with me—an athlete, a doctor. But then I feel petty, ashamed to have reduced my current fiancé to bullet points.

“I’ll let you guys catch up,” Aaron says. “Katie Sue seems to have sixteen more tasks for me out there.” He squeezes my arm lightly as he gives Wesley a little nod and turns back toward the gym.

“Katie Sue said you have a lot going on. She seemed to think you might want to tell me about it ...” I remember what she said earlier and hope I haven’t overstepped.

A look of anger flashes across Wesley’s face, but it’s gone so quickly, I’m not sure I read it right.

“Or not,” I add. “I was just taking my cues from her, but you ... whatever.” I don’t know how to interact with this quiet, subdued version of Wesley. I know him as boisterous and energetic. This guy just seems watchful and sad, the way he was after his parents died and for the last few days of our relationship. I wonder if he’s been like this the whole time we’ve been apart. It hurts my heart to even consider that possibility. All this time, I’ve pictured Wesley shining his light in other places, on other ideas, other women. Never have I considered the possibility that he hasn’t been shining his light at all.

“No, I do. It’s just”—he looks around the kitchen, like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear—“there’s been a lot of pity lately, which I don’t need, so don’t go there when I tell you, okay?”

“O ... kay ...” I say it slowly, wondering what direction we are headed in.

“No, I know how you get, but this isn’t your problem to solve, okay?”

“Okay,” I say again, “but what is it? You’re making me nervous.” Although now that he’s actually talking to me, I feel like I’m finding solid ground.

“I have ALS.” He glances around the kitchen, as if to confirm that no one else has heard, and then looks back down at me.

I feel myself blinking rapidly in confusion. “You ... Wait, you what?”

“I was diagnosed a few months ago. I only just told Katie Sue recently, so I guess she’s still processing.” His voice contains mild dismay, but he sounds only casually annoyed, too relaxed for what I think he’s trying to tell me.

“ALS? You don’t mean ... not like Lou Gehrig’s disease?” I look at him from head to toe, now feeling free to study him openly. I regard him as if he can’t possibly be correct in what he’s declared.

“Yeah, no, exactly like Lou Gehrig’s disease.” He picks up the knife and starts slicing turkey again, like there’s nothing more to discuss.

I don’t know a ton about the disease, but I’ve seen that movie about Stephen Hawking, and there is definitely, definitely more to say.