“How about you figure this out instead, and then I’ll get Dylan up, and we can try out this whole van thing with his new power chair? You do that, and we’ll call it even,” she says, looking up at me through her lashes.
I shake my head and take the box in my hand, pulling out a booklet that unfolds into pages of tiny-print instructions. I drop the box to the floor and begin to read, rubbing the back of my neck wondering if I’m smart enough to even know where to begin.
“See, you do this, and we’re even,” she laughs, stepping around the laundry pile toward her refrigerator.
“For once, Tanya, I think that sounds fair,” I say, glancing at her then back down to step one of 178.
“Coffee?” she asks.
“Lots,” I say.
It takes me a little more than two hours and six phone calls to my Uncle Duncan to get the lift mechanism working and attached to the van. For such a small part, it serves an incredibly enormous function. We test it on our own a few times before moving the electric wheelchair down the hallway to Dylan’s door.
“He’s just napping. He gets so tired, and we had therapy this morning,” she whispers.
I push the door open slowly, and Dylan doesn’t stir until I kneel at the edge of his bed and grab his hand in both of mine. My touch startles him, but the second his eyes focus and he realizes it’s me, he begins to squirm and moan with excitement. His fingers fight against their rigidity, and I force mine into his, massaging his impossible muscles and joints, wishing I knew how to make things okay for him.
“How’s the new therapy going?” I ask, leaning forward and pressing my head to Dylan’s. It calms him when I do this; it always has. He smiles, and I can see he’s grown another tooth. “Hey, buddy,” I whisper to him.
“It’s hard to tell. We’ve only been at it for three days or so. But you know Dylan; he’s up for anything,” she says.
“He is,” I say, smiling.
His hand comes loose from my grip, so I lean back on my heels and let Dylan work to steady himself. His severe cerebral palsy has kept him non-verbal, but the doctors we met with a few days ago told us we weren’t too late to be aggressive with speech therapy.
“What do you say, Dylan? Wanna take this new chair and van for a ride?” I ask.
“You’ll need to help him in, but he’s already figured out the forward and back. He doesn’t steer very well, though, so I keep it on the lowest speed,” she says, while I lift his small, struggling body into the seat.
“I’m good at patching walls. I broke a lot of them roughhousing when I was little,” I chuckle.
“You and Evan? Hard to imagine,” she says.
I laugh lightly to myself before giving all of my attention over to Dylan. Tanya was right about his comfort in the chair, and he begins to palm at the controls quickly, his fingers finding the right switch, sending the chair forward. He bangs the corner of the doorjamb only once on his way out and manages to get down the hallway without much trouble. The ramp I built during my last visit seems to be able to handle the weight of the chair, and within a few minutes, with Tanya’s guidance, he’s moved himself to the open door of the van.
It takes us several tries to line him up just right, but the first time the lift raises him, Dylan begins to hoot loudly and clap his curled hands. I hold a fist to my mouth and pull Tanya to my side, letting her cry at the sight of her son finally being able to go for a ride in something safe. Until now, she’s been carrying him to the backseat of her old car and laying him down, strapping him in with the belts and avoiding major roads, hoping she wouldn’t get in an accident. He’d gotten too heavy for her to carry, and I finally convinced her to let me buy some of the things she so desperately needs. As far as this takes her, though, she still has so many hurdles to overcome. The more times we practice with the lift, the more the weight of it all hits my chest, and the more guilt I feel for letting her do this alone.
We get Dylan back inside. He watches television in the living room, and I sit with Tanya at the table, finishing the pot of coffee she brewed. I slide my empty cup on the table and pry hers from her hand, holding on to her small fingers.
“We could make this work. Let me stay here. We’ll just see how it goes,” I say, my eyes pleading with her.
She runs her thumb across my knuckles and turns my palm over in both of hers, running her fingers along the lines tattooed on my wrist.
“I count twelve here, Will. That’s amazing. I’m so proud of you,” she says. I look down at my skin, the last line still pink around the edges.
“I got that last one a little early,” I grimace.
“You could put a hundred on your arm now. I know you’ll make it,” she says, her eyes tired, and her smile struggling to stick around. If she believes in me so much, I don’t understand why she won’t let me help her now.
“So then, let me stay,” I say.
She stares at me for several seconds, maybe considering it. But just as she always does, she cuts me off.