The Muse's Undoing

But I’ll take the in. If I can make him feel welcome at home, maybe our mom can stop feeling like she screwed up with him by having biological children. Maybe he won’t feel the need to run off to active war zones to make a living, and he’ll settle down in the city to work.

Maybe I can rebuild the bridge back to our family he’s been burning for as long as I can remember.

“All right,” he says. “I appreciate it. I guess I’m ready to go, then.” He hits the button on his call light and looks up at me. “Can you help me up?”

I squat, putting my hands on his hips, and I feel him flinch. “Is this okay?” I ask quickly.

“I’ll get used to it.” He places his hands on my shoulders.

Using my legs to bear both our body masses, I stand straight, and his body follows. He lets out a shuddering breath as he settles half his weight on his recently shattered leg.

A male nurse who looks younger than I am arrives with a wheelchair and immediately steps over to help Fischer into it. I pivot to step between them, careful not to jostle my brother. “I’ve got him,” I tell the nurse, who takes a step away.

Fischer looks up at me, eyes full of relief and maybe even some gratitude. Like we’ve done this a million times, I help him into the chair, even going so far as to bend over to lift his left foot onto the pedal. As I rise to look him over and make sure I didn’t hurt him, our eyes meet again.

He gives me a nod, and mouths a thank you. I smile. He reaches up to give my wrist a squeeze. It’s so shocking, I struggle to take my next breath. Of all the people in the world he could pick do this, he’s choosing me.

As we’re wheeling out of the room and down the hall, I turn to the nurse. “So, is nursing school hard?”

Fischer’s answering chuckle is the best thing I’ve ever heard.

2

FISCHER

Itake the pills and water Matty hands me after putting my laptop aside on the bed. “Thanks,” I mumble before downing them both. I’m in the narcotic weaning process, which I realize makes me an asshole who’s not showing nearly the level of appreciation my brother deserves after taking care of me for three months, even going so far as to leave the hotel room where he lives to move in with me so that I don’t have to have a nurse come by every day to make sure I’m getting in and out of the shower safely.

At least he doesn’t have to wash my ass anymore. Since the staples came out, I’m able to shower in relative privacy on my shower stool. Matty waits around, sitting on the toilet seat and acting as a spotter in case I lose my balance, which, I’m not proud to say, happens more than I like.

If he weren’t here, there’s almost no chance I would have tried to wean off the pills. The pain isn’t half as bad as those first weeks, but it’s still constant. Physical therapy is killing me, but even I can admit it’s helping. I’m more confident on crutches, and weight bearing feels less like moving a mountain and more like a challenge I can win. Eventually.

“Need anything else before I shower?” Matty asks.

“Can you bring me a notepad and pen?”

“Sure.”

I watch him leave the bedroom, his healthy twenty-year old body moving with ease. After his shower, around the time my pills kick in, he’ll help me with my prescribed stretching routine, which I’d literally never do if Matty weren’t here to make me.

Last week, I put together a document for him to look over involving what getting a degree in nursing would entail, but he balked at the prerequisites, claiming his ADHD was in direct conflict with formal schooling of any kind. To be clear, I don’t care what he does for a living, but he keeps bringing it up—like he thinks he should be doing something more important than working at a hotel and dreaming up sculptures he doesn’t have the time or the space to make.

He reappears with my requested items and asks if I want him to plug in my laptop. I put my hand protectively on the cover. “No,” I insist. “I’m working on something.”

He gives me that cute half-grin of his that says he thinks I’m neurotic as hell and proceeds to the bathroom. Since I can’t report on the news in person, I have to write about it. At the moment, I’m working on a piece for The Atlantic about the political fallout from the recent cease-fire in the region where I was injured. The New York Times published an opinion piece today that I wrote last week, and I’m suddenly more motivated. Probably because I’m not high a hundred percent of the time anymore.

My phone rings while Matthew’s still in the shower. Donna.

“Hey,” I answer.

“Hey to you, too. How was your day?”

Our mom has taken to calling us both every night to check in.

“Good,” I tell her. “Staying busy.”

“How’s your pain?”

“On a scale of one to ten?”