Greatest

12: turn Fortune's wheel about

I don't slip off to be dead. Just to be asleep. That's it.
I wake up before Bradley, and quietly make my way downstairs so as not to wake him. I have this book in my hands, and I plan on curling up quietly somewhere to write. But predictably I get distracted by the bookshelves. There's many titles I recognize, and a few I don't. They aren't all nice editions either, many are old, and much loved, some paperbacks that were probably bought second hand.
I reach out and pick up a copy of the Hobbit. I never read it, and always wanted to. But it wasn't one of the approved books to download so I never have. But it's sitting right here.
"Ah, one of my favorites," Bradley's mother appears in the doorway, dressed for the day in a sweater and jeans, silver hair pulled back.
"Sorry," I say, setting it down.
"No, don't be, I was interested you were drawn to it, that's all," she says.
"I've never read it—saw the trailer, for the movie—realize that's not the same thing but—," this is honest. Normally I would say I'd seen the movie or read it. But this is real and it sounds terrible.
"Oh really? You're in for a treat then. I read that when I was just a girl, I was younger than you boys certainly, probably thirteen? My mother got that for me, for my birthday, it's been in my collection since," she says.
I look at the well loved book, marveling at its journey. From the hands of a little girl, sitting along side her toys, and dolls, to probably college bookshelves overlooking lover's trysts, then perhaps packed away for years. Now to sit on the shelf of the woman's grand house. No longer a schoolgirl coming home to bury her nose in the pages, now a woman with a distinguished career, her son and his friend home from school, a mother and one day a grandmother. And yet the simple tale remains the same. Here for comfort, here watching over many a quiet night by the fire. The ages of the owner, all played out before its faded spine. I can't think of a single possession I will have that will hold such tales. And of course none shall get the chance. I cannot begin to imagine the sweet simplicity, even in a complicated world, of being fifty, sixty, even forty years old, while my children trip in from childhood adventures, looking at a book or a fencing foil or even a school sweater, knowing it lay in my dorm room or that my hands brushed it the night of my first kiss, or that I folded and packed it when moving into my first apartment. I cannot imagine taking a sword or a knife, and showing my own child, telling them that I used it when I was in school. It's well I suppose as it shall not happen to me. But there's weird sort of melancholy in that it ought to.
"I'll have to read it sometime," I say, sliding the book back into its hallowed spot, "Has Bradley?"
"Oh yes, I read it to him when he was small—probably too small I imagine," she laughs, "But I was home from work and he loved the attention."
But Bradley gets to. Somehow that fullfills me? Someday he'll be reading that book to his own children. His teenager will be holding up an Admiral's sweater asking where he got it. He'll have had his first real heartbreak in that sweater. And he'll laugh thinking of that night. He'll laugh again as he reads the Hobbit as a bedtime story to his own children, and tell them about their grandmother. And perhaps one day he'll tell them the story of his mysterious Searcher.
"I'll make him tell it to me sometime then," I say, quietly, "We have plenty of time."
"You do," she says, smiling, "Is there anything I can get you? Breakfast?"
"I'm fine, I don't usually eat for hours," I say, shaking my head, "I was just going to sit someplace quiet."
"Bradley said you're like a cat."
"What else does Bradley say about me?" I ask, suspicious, as she goes back to the kitchen.
"Ask him yourself!"
I do not. In fact I do very little the rest of the weekend. It's simply marvelous. I fall asleep every other hour it seems. Shane is a bit concerned, but Jonesy mutters something about making up for lost time.
It rains all weekend, and Bradley and I are forced indoors, despite his frequent instance that it's clearing up we could go boating again. We try to play video games, but I fall asleep for half of them, unable to stop nodding off. I have two really bad headaches requiring full pills and that puts me well out of it for the rest of the day. I also throw up an awful lot all weekend. Just generally.
Bradley's mother is more than happy to cook for us, and Shane and Jonsey are content to help her and make small talk.
Bradley discovers through careful interrogation I have not seen a lot of movies he thinks I need to see, so he cues those up and we waste away the hours. I confess I sleep through most of it. It's as though I've finally stopped and my body does want to make up for lost time, as does my heart. In a drugged out haze I'm more than content to stare at Bradley as he laughs at the antics of the characters on TV, watching his lovely hair as it drifts about his ethereal face.
But all too soon the weekend is over. And we must pack up to go home. Bradley's mother actually hugs me at the airport telling me to be safe. I thank her for the good food and tell her I don't think I'll ever have such good meals again for the rest of my life. Bradley tells me he's adopting me and so yes I will I'm required to live with him now I don't make much noise.
He flies in coach, we fly first class. Which is really great because I throw up eighteen times and then have a seizure and pass out.