All This Life

Sara can’t be alone one minute longer. She might not know it, but she needs him, her Rodney, her Balloon Boy. She has to surround herself with people who care for her. People who aren’t new, people who haven’t just shown up in her life. No, she requires the retrofitted support of those who have loved her for a long time. And it’s horrible that her parents died and horrible how Hank lost it and cussed her out, but there’s still love, Sara. There’s love and it’s here.

Rodney tries to shoulder his way through the door like he’s seen cops do on TV, but he’s making no headway. Looks around for something to swing at it. A fire extinguisher, a suitcase rack, a microwave. But there’s nothing.

Or there’s one thing, but it’s going to be painful. He can use his leg, his foot. Kick it down, though he’s never done anything like this. A karate kick can force the door open, right? He moves two steps back for momentum, rushes forward with vengeance and vinegar, lifts his battering ram and connects with all this might, making contact next to the knob. Something cracks in his leg. A faraway pain that knows it can’t be the center of attention, not yet, not until Sara’s okay.

The door rockets open.

His leg heaves with electric shocks.

Balloon Boy looks over at the tub and sees Sara’s naked body under the water. He limps in and falls to his knees and grabs her — falling and grabbing and hoping he hasn’t waited too long to help her.

Luckily, she starts thrashing around in the water.

She comes up and coughs.

“What are you doing in here?” she says.

Rodney talks too fast for anybody to decode: “Don’t. Huuuuu. .”

“Get out!” she says, covering up her naked body with her hands.

“D. .”

But he’s so worried, so concerned about what this is, or what it might be, that talking is impossible. He loves Sara. He needs her. He wants to show her every glowing cell that lives inside him. Wants to make her feel better. Wants to shine a microscope into his heart and then hers, and he wants to make Sara inspect both of them — wants her to remember.

“Get the fuck out of here!” she says.

Balloon Boy can’t gather himself enough to articulate the simplest oral communications. There are no pens or pencils or pads around. If he hopes to speak with her, he’ll have to use action.

Rodney stands and gets a towel and drapes it, concealing her small body.

“I’m so screwed right now, Rodney,” she says, sobbing.

Rodney consoles her, watching the ice bucket float in the tub with a bunch of pepperonis. He leans over and hugs her, getting wet too.

“What if I never feel alive again?” Sara asks and grabs the ice bucket, wedging it on her head.

“I. Love. You.”

It takes nine seconds for him to get this out, but really it’s taken years.

Sara stares at him the whole time.

People don’t pick when or where the good stuff happens. Sometimes it occurs in shabby motel rooms, in Sacramento, with ice buckets for top hats and legs for battering rams. The good stuff happens at all sorts of asinine times, and none of that matters when Rodney hears her say, “I love you too.”

He reaches into the tub and retrieves her, despite the frenzy going on in his hurt leg. Rodney carries a naked Sara from the bathtub to the bed. He strips out of his own clothes, cuddling with her until she’s fast asleep and he’s left awake, contemplating every detail that brought them here.

15

Curiosity dismembers Kathleen: What’s Wes doing in there?

He had seemed so earnest in his initial pledge to spend the bulk of his time at UCSF, in the lab, that Kat didn’t question the validity of his assurance. But the first four days he’s been here, he hasn’t gone anywhere, barely left his room.

Which is why Kathleen finds herself gently placing an ear against the door. She can hear him. He’s talking to someone. Skyping or some other video chat platform? She doubts it; Wes never asked her for the Wi-Fi code. It could be a phone call, but he’s not really leaving time for anyone else to talk, running some kind of filibuster. Kathleen’s been standing with her ear to the door for at least three minutes and he hasn’t let up. He’s not yelling. It’s a steady drip of words, almost mutters. She can’t make out exactly what he’s saying; she can only hear the drone.

It’s her house. Knock and ask. She doesn’t have to be a hard-ass about it; there don’t need to be any accusations, any talk of the bait-and-switch—You said you’d be at the lab the whole time! He’s her tenant, and that gives Kat certain rights. Namely, the right to know if the rules have changed.