Asher ✓

18 | cope

JANUARY 6, 2011 / ASTORIA PHYSIOTHERAPY CLINIC

The only thing Asher did during the one-sided conversation was blink once every so often, and listen to Tracey Bradshaw's over-emotional speech.

"I didn't mean to hurt you, but what I'm looking for isn't what you have. I'm in love with someone else," was the conclusion of a three-minute rant about how they could still be friends, and how it was her, not Asher, and how sorry she was.

Asher didn't believe for one second that Tracey was in love with the linebacker she had left him for. It was hyperbole — another of Tracey's once-endearing habits that now left a bitter sting at the back of his mouth. But, he could easily accept that she liked him more than Asher. Hell, Asher probably liked the linebacker more than he liked Tracey in that moment.

"It's okay. You were way past the expiration date, anyway."

It was slightly sadistic of him to say that, but Asher took great joy in seeing the hurt flash in Tracey's stunning irises. The intensity with which his emotions switched had not faded since they moved to America. In fact, with such new sights, sounds and experiences, Asher's mood oscillated between higher peaks and lower troughs than they ever had. 

And right now, he was low. Asher was in a pit of bitterness, a pit where he forgot what kindness even was, and a pit that proved that no matter how able his body currently was, something was broken inside his mind.

"I said we could still be friends," Tracey snapped. "Why are you being so mean about this?"

Asher swung on his heels, contemplating his next reply with a leisurely expression that sent bullets to Tracey's ego.

"I don't think my bitchy ex-girlfriend who cheated on me deserves anything from me — especially friendship. It's been a general displeasure to know you, and I hope I never have to interact with your insipid brain again."

Soaring from the thrill of having the upper hand, Asher turned on his toes, and started the snowy walk home. Not all of his memories with Tracey were negative — they did have some fun dates and sweet moments. The breakup was the drop of black watercolour paint into clear water, that spread and tainted every other memory into an ugly colour. 

Asher was smart enough to acknowledge that he and Tracey had made some cool moments, but since they were fake, he resolved to think of their entire relationship as anything but a relationship — a game, a mistake, an act. For all he knew, every word Tracey had said to him was also said to the damned linebacker of their football team.

Later that night, Tracey would search up the meaning of insipid, and try to hold back the tears. 

She had really thought that Asher loved her, and he would be the most hurt one when she broke up with him. Why did she feel like she was the one who got dumped? The simple truth Tracey would come to realise, when the same linebacker for whom she left Asher, left her for an older, blonder choir leader was that — try as you might — you can't keep a heart that hasn't been given to you.

Asher had never given his heart away.

And luckily for him, that meant that he could cope with Tracey's cheating. Asher wasn't heartbroken at all — offended and mad, absolutely. But in the passenger seat of the Delrov's old family car, going to meet with Dr. Kruger, Asher made peace with his feelings. He learnt not to trust so easily, he learnt that teenage relationships never last, he learnt that dating is not for him. 

With the valuable lessons from Tracey and his three-month fling remembered, waiting in the foyer of Astoria's Physiotherapeutic Clinic was the last time and place Asher allowed himself to feel hurt about Tracey, or regret the words he said. The goddess with fragrant hair was just a memory Asher would rather forget.

Asher took his chin off his palm, and his mind off Tracey, when Hannah Kruger walked out with a man in a wheelchair. Dr. Kruger shook the paraplegic's hand, and went alongside him to the motion-sensor door — watching until she was sure his chaperone had gotten him into the car.

"Asher," she greeted. "Come on through."

In the light, minimalistic office that Hannah Kruger met with patients in — Ekaterina would have approved — Vasily and Asher took seats on the cream armchairs.

Asher's doctor clasped her hands on her navy pencil skirt, and informed Vasily that, "Asher could be strong enough to do more impactful activities now. Type I osteogenesis imperfecta is mild, and if the broken bones stop around fifteen, then most people with the condition have a relatively normal life."

Vasily looked to his feet. "What things would Asher be allowed to do?"

"It's completely up to you, as his father," Dr. Kruger assured. "But he is a teenager, and teenagers need their freedom. I'd suggest letting him do sports, but avoid ones with risk of getting hit hard — football, baseball, cricket. Soft ball sports, like squash and badminton are completely fine. Of course, I trust Asher to know what his body can and can't take. He can decide for himself which things are safe for him to do, and which things aren't."

Asher found it annoying and insulting how they talked like he wasn't there. 

He agreed, "I've been studying my imperfecta since I could pronounce the word. Most cases stop during adolescence. I can handle myself. Don't worry."

For years, Asher had tried to get Vasily not to worry, to trust in his abilities of self-care. 

Except that didn't really work when each time, inevitably, Asher would spend another two nights in the emergency room getting some bones screwed and hammered back into place. But his last break was years ago, in Russia. 

Vasily was starting to believe what Asher fought for every day of his life: his imperfect son could cope with more pressure now, instead of just breaking under it.