Authors: Trish Marie Dawson
***
Food, finally! I don’t think he knows what to do with half the stuff he brought home, because I nearly lost my voice shouting out the names of colorful vegetables and fruits and whole grains in the store. It was an almost painful challenge to keep him from the candy and frozen food sections.
He sets the bags on the counter and starts unpacking them slowly. When he pulls the pineapple out, the largest thing I
MADE
him buy, he stares at it with wonder, before setting it carefully back down on the counter-top; as if he’s afraid it might come to life and tear his hand off if he jostles it. It’s a golden color and I had him sniff it in the store, with some coaxing of course…to make sure it was ripe.
I sit my imaginary butt down on an imaginary velvet throne and put my feet up on an imaginary footstool made of rubies and gold as he moves easily about the kitchen putting food away, and pondering what to actually eat. I feel like a Goddess. I
rock
this job!
He stands with his hands comically on his hips. “What the hell will I do with you?” He’s staring down the pineapple, possibly challenging it to a duel. Eventually he grumbles, “I don’t know why I bought that.”
Because you’re going to cut it up and toss it in with some chopped apples and mandarin oranges…dump it on some of that plain yogurt and crumble that yummy looking granola on top. And it’s going to be sooo good!
“I guess I could make a fruit salad,” he says quietly.
That’s what I just said!
“Or order pizza.”
He moves toward the greasy flyer stuck on the fridge by a rusty bottle opener magnet and my imaginary footstool disappears, as does my imaginary throne, and I fall flat on my imaginary butt.
What?! NO!
He slumps up against the fridge in frustration. I know he can hear me, so I dive in once again.
You are NOT ordering greasy junk food, no matter how wonderful it tastes, because you worked out today…and it made you feel good. And you want to feel good. MAKE THE DAMN FRUIT SALAD!
“Okay, fine!” He yells at the empty room.
Did he
actually
hear me? I wonder if all assignments talk to themselves as much as he talks back to me. It’s something I have to remember to ask Niles about the instant I return to the Station.
My throne returns as he butchers the pineapple badly but eventually it’s cut into edible bites. I watch him toss it in with the rest of the fruit. Almost as an afterthought he pulls the yogurt out of the fridge and the granola from the cupboard and combines it all into one very messy bowl.
Excellent job.
I say, and I mean it.
***
He’s asleep in front of the TV again. He has awful sleeping habits…I’ll have to work on that. Since he has to be at
Steam
by nine the next morning, I doubt he’ll want to get up early again for a run but I plan on trying anyway. In order for him to improve he has to break his bad habits first. He has to learn to care about himself again – inside and out.
It’s possible,
Volunteers do this every day
, I remind myself. Sloan seems like a tough case though. And not for the first time I wonder why anyone at the Station would think he was a good match for
me
. I doubt I will ever understand the politics of my new existence.
I’m dawdling on that idea when Sloan’s cell rings. It’s sitting on the coffee table, just beside his propped up feet. He doesn’t move on the first ring, or even the second, but he stirs on the third and sits up to grab the phone by the fourth.
“What?” He answers it without reading the caller ID.
“Sloan Nash. Are you ignoring me for a reason?”
A syrupy voice teases him from the other side of the phone.
“Jess?” His feet fly off the table and he leans forward on the couch, rubbing his hand through his hair briskly to wake himself up.
“Were you expecting someone else to call this late, baby?”
She’s still teasing him. Judging her voice alone, I bet she’s beautiful…tall perhaps, thin of course, big breasted, tiny waist, long and perfect hair, orthodontist-made teeth. I instantly hate her.
“Nah. Just been busy, you know. Work.”
Is he dodging her? Miss fake-boobs, perfect hair, ortho-teeth with the should be illegal sexy voice girl?
“You don’t return my calls.”
She sounds as if she’s fake pouting.
Uhg.
“Sorry,” he replies flatly, with no emotion.
“Are you busy tonight, baby? Want some company?”
“Umm.”
What?! You can’t be considering this, Sloan…it’s almost one in the morning!
“Sorry, Jess. It’s late and I work tomorrow…you know, first thing.”
Phew. No doubt you dodged a nearly fatal bullet there.
“You sure, baby?”
She sounds ridiculous. What woman throws herself at a man in the middle of the night, when he’s clearly not interested?
Is she drunk? She must be drunk.
“Have you been drinking?” Sloan asks her.
The silence on the other end is enough to make me want to giggle. She IS drunk and clearly embarrassed to be caught. I listen to their awkward goodbyes and urge Sloan to bed. He flips the TV off and grumbles the whole five feet into his room, but he’s asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.
Oh, Sloan. We’ll work on your laundry list of problems in the morning. Until then, sleep well. I have work to do in here.
It’s dawn again and my gentle urges to wake him up aren’t working, so I belt out Katy Perry’s
Part Of Me
until I hear Sloan’s half-conscious voice mumbling in protest.
“Oh my god, turn it down.”
I sing louder until he opens his eyes.
Yay – light!
I stop singing but laugh when I hear Sloan humming the song on his way to the bathroom. For the whole ten minutes we are in there, I attempt to pump him up for a quick early morning run and he surprises me by not being mentally combative.
We are back in the apartment half an hour later, sweat soaking through the front and back of Sloan’s shirt. He peels off his clothes as he walks across the living room and I sense he’s about to dump them onto the floor.
HAMPER!
He balls up his shorts and t-shirt and jumps high into the air to toss them into the packed hamper in the corner of his room as if they are a basketball.
Hmm…tonight when you get off of work, we are going to do some laundry AND put the clothes back into your dresser.
I’ve seen enough of his body by now to be comfortable with it in naked form from the chest down, but every time he’s facing the mirror I’m surprised with his looks. I don’t sense from him that he enjoys being attractive, or is even aware of it for that matter. In fact, his self-esteem is very low.
One thing at a time, we can work on your feelings of self-loathing tomorrow.
***
The brown-haired woman from Friday isn’t working today and I’m grateful for some reason. The day goes by quickly thanks to the busy Sunday crowd and the only part of the day I’ve had to yell at Sloan was on the bike rides to and from work. I appreciate each good decision he makes on his own and make a point to pump him full of praise when the moment calls for it. But back in the apartment, it’s just him alone with me…except he doesn’t know I’m here.
What will you make for dinner?
He searches through the groceries we purchased the day before but there aren’t too many options; it’s hard to ride a bike and carry bags at the same time, so he didn't buy much. He settles on grilled veggies with rice stuffed into some pita bread and a side of left-over fruit salad. I know he really likes the fruit concoction and it makes me deliriously happy.
Just before he shoves the pita full of rice and veggies into his mouth I get an idea.
How about some music, Sloan?
His hand actually hovers in front of his mouth and for a brief moment I believe he’s heard me, but then the food goes in and he takes a massive bite, spilling grains of rice onto his plate. I would pout if physically possible but my suddenly dour mood is lifted when he pushes himself up from the couch, still chewing his food and walks across the room to turn on his radio.
Punching In A Dream
is just ending and I tap my missing hands on my missing knees. I
love
this song.
After dinner Sloan washes his dishes and though I encourage him to wipe them off and put them away, he leaves them out to air dry on a large hand towel instead. So I move on to the next chore. It takes a half hour of my nagging to convince him to do laundry but eventually he caves and drops his nearly full bottle of laundry soap on the top of the heaping hamper with obvious displeasure.
The laundry room is a short walk downstairs and across the courtyard. Thankfully it’s empty when he enters, because there are only two sets of machines. He over-loads one of the washers and doesn’t bother to separate the colors and I try hard not to complain…he
IS
doing his laundry after-all. Plus, he has his iPod going, so I get to lose myself in music while he works.
Just as Sloan slams the washer lid down, a woman in her thirties comes into the small room and thumps her laundry basket onto the counter. A young boy about five years old is entwined around her legs, obviously shy around Sloan.
“Are you using both machines?” She asks him with a smile.
“Oh, no. This one’s free.”
He gestures to the empty washer and steps aside so she can dump her clothes into it. The boy is still wrapped tightly around her but sends a quick smirk in Sloan’s direction. I feel a stirring in him as he watches the pair.
“Thanks!” She says before leaving the room as her boy runs into the corner of the courtyard. A plastic truck is waiting for him in the dirt border of a flower bed.
Sloan watches them through the window for a few minutes and I know he is thinking about his mother. He misses her but he’s also very angry with her still. She abandoned him in a sense, left him when he needed her most.
No wonder you have no functional female relationships.
He snorts, as if thinking of something funny but I can’t catch what it is. Eventually he turns away from the window with the view of the mom who is sitting near her son as he plays with his dump truck…carefully maneuvering around the planted Gerbera Daisies so as not to disturb them. Sloan finds an old magazine to flip through and when the buzzer on the washer goes off, he hops down from the counter and tosses his clothes into the dryer.
It will be at least an hour before they are dry, so we head back up the stairs to the second floor of the complex. Of course Sloan plops down onto the couch and turns on the TV. I wait until he’s completely engrossed in a restaurant makeover show before I start my borage of questions.
Who are your friends?
What are your passions?
Can you ever forgive yourself for Mick’s death?
Why the gun, Sloan?
I wait patiently as his mind ponders through the answers slowly. Friends…he trusts no one. Very Mulder of him, but I get it. Passions – that’s difficult…he remembers taking guitar classes when he was younger but after Mick…well, everything sort of stopped after the accident. Other than random sex with strangers, he hasn’t had much of a passion in years. But he likes nature, he likes being outdoors…which is why he doesn’t mind using the bike as his main form of transportation. His mind skims directly over the topic of forgiveness without pause. The gun…he spends a considerable amount of time pondering this question. I’ve heard the same commercial for toilet bowl cleaner three times before he’s done.
You need to get rid of the gun, Sloan.
“No, not yet.”
If you keep it, you won’t heal. You have to let it go.
“There’s nothing to let go of. No one needs me here.”
And there it is. The real reason…he feels abandoned, needed by no one…
alone
.
That’s not true. I’m sure it’s not.
“There’s nothing for me here. No one.”
You have me, I’m here with you.
He drags his shaky hands down his face and sighs heavily. “This talking to yourself thing has gotta stop, Sloan,” he says with an empty laugh.
You don’t have to talk back, just listen.
He pounds his fists into his temple twice and I know he’s done for the night. I quiet and let his mind wander once again to the TV.
It’s okay. There’s no rush.
By the time he heads back downstairs to retrieve his clothes, I’m lost in thought. This is hard. Trying to pick a pathway to steer him onto without completely taking away his free-will is almost impossible. But then I remember the box he has buried in the back of his closet and I get an idea. It might not work, in fact it might back-fire, but I think the risk is worth it, because he also has a gun in that closet.
***
The daylight has completely faded from the sky, leaving only the light-post on the sidewalk as illumination outside Sloan's bedroom window. The bedside lamp showers a yellow glow across half of the room, creating dark shadows in every corner. He's standing at the foot of the bed, chewing on his lower lip, eyeing the box warily. I so badly want him to open it so I can see exactly what’s inside but if I push too hard he might walk away completely, so I wait…quietly.
The cardboard is old and the tape that no longer sticks to the lid is faded. It looks as if he’s opened the box many times over the years but it’s been awhile. I can tell by the rising level of his anxiety.