Note: This is the fifth of a six-part series. As always, I welcome constructive criticism.
*****
STUDYING
Estelle had been staying with us in Hamilton for nearly two years now. Mom insisted that Estelle complete high school, and she had not complained too much -- though she was still not happy about not having a bedroom door. Estelle wasn't the best student, but she got acceptable grades, mostly Bs and Cs. Having run away in the middle of Grade 11 and then spending all summer and fall caring for me, she had needed to repeat the grade and would be graduating a year late. Like me, she was not planning an extra year to get her OACs -- Ontario Academic Credits. If either of us were going to university, we would have needed OAC courses for entry.
In her first year with us, I had asked Mom a couple times whether Estelle might be moving back in with her parents, but I was told to worry about it. They visited over Christmas in 1997, but her father had been posted to the east coast early in 1998, so they were unable to come to Hamilton for the holidays. Instead, we had taken Estelle to Angus just after Christmas, allowing her to spend a week with her parents before they moved. She never really talked about why she didn't like the town, but I gathered it had something to do with why she had run away from home. In any case, she didn't bring up her family, and I didn't press her. Mom and I had an unexpectedly stressful break, which required some time for me to recover. And, with me starting college in January, things were a bit busy for us at the start of the year.
Estelle insisted on taking Mom with us for our Valentine's dinner. I was a bit surprised when she suggested it, but I had found that it was easier to let her do what she wanted in most situations. Since reservations on the fourteenth would be nearly impossible, we went out the night before Valentine's. It was a Friday night, so none of us had to be up early the next day.
It was nothing super expensive, just an Italian restaurant that Estelle chose. We had a nice evening, talking and laughing about a bunch of stuff. I noticed that a lot of it was stories Mom told of my childhood, many of them more than a little embarrassing. I don't know why these had never come up before, but I was glad to see Estelle and Mom interacting so easily with each other. After what had happened with Mom and I on the camping trip, I had been worried that there might have been tension between them. Estelle didn't know all of the details, but it was really Mom that I had been worried about.
We didn't stay out too late, as it had been a long week for my mother, but it was almost nine by the time she pulled into the drive. As she was unlocking the front door, Mom said that she was going to bed and reminded us both to do our homework. I didn't argue, even though I didn't really have any. I was studying auto mechanics at Mohawk, and my few papers and assignments for the first half of the semester had either been handed in or required completion of practical work that was planned for later in February. Exams would not start until mid-April, and I knew that a bit of studying now would not help much.
I had noticed one significant lasting effect of the accident three years ago -- my short- to mid-term memory was shit. If I studied something repeatedly I could eventually memorize it, and I could usually recall things I had read up on within a couple hours. But otherwise, it was useless. I had failed most of my first-term Grade Twelve classes before I came to grips with that, though numerous absences for physiotherapy and medical appointments had not helped. Luckily, my neurologist referred me to a learning specialist, who gave me some tips on how to support an impaired memory.
As I had been advised to do early in my recovery, I now took notes for everything. I had gotten into the habit of carrying a notebook with me everywhere and wrote down anything that I thought I would need to remember, reviewing the book each night. I never even tried to memorize appointments any more, writing them down religiously. When attending lectures, I got into the habit of making audio recordings, which I listened to later while making notes. And I had determined that the most effective way for me to study was to set apart a large block of time to focus on schoolwork, at least a couple hours when I was not tired. Grabbing a few minutes here or there didn't really help much, nor did trying to study when I was fatigued, distracted or stressed. Luckily for me, my courses contained more hands-on training than lectures. I had noticed that practical skills were no more difficult for me to remember than before the accident, though I needed to write down specific instructions for things like torque settings, fluid specifications and volumes, or other details. But anything to do with motor skills I picked up quite quickly.
But about stress -- when things got too crazy, I completely lost the ability to concentrate. I'd had a pretty severe stress attack during our winter camping trip. It was like there was a pressure switch in my brain now. When the stress level got to a certain point, the switch turned off my ability to do all but the simplest of tasks. Memory seemed to shut down completely, and even simple conversation became difficult. I couldn't drive in that condition, though I eventually found that I could still ride a bike. Cycling had become so ingrained as muscle memory that it was almost an automatic function. I could no longer compete, but I found that taking a bike ride was a good way to destress -- as long as I avoided heavy traffic and didn't exert myself too strenuously.
While Estelle got her books out and began studying, I headed upstairs for a shower. I stripped down to my underwear and grabbed a towel. Stepping into the hall, I realized that I had not talked with my mother about what had happened in Algonquin Park since we returned home. It was something that I really needed to do, and I figured this was as good a time as any. Before heading into the bathroom, I continued down the hall and knocked softly on Mom's door.
"Come in."
I opened the door, seeing her lying on the bed, sliding a book under the blanket.
"Mom, I was just thinking about Rock Lake. And Mew Lake."
She smiled. "I've thought about that a few times myself. What's on your mind?"
"Well, you said you would need to do a test after a few weeks. Did you, uh, get a result?"
Her smile widened a fraction. "Yes, I did."
"Are you going to tell me?"
She shrugged and pulled her book out from under the blanket. "Just waiting for the right time."
She was reading 'What to Expect When You're Expecting.' My heart did flipping motions in my chest, and I couldn't speak for a minute.
"Did you have any other questions?"
I walked to the bed, sitting down and looking at her. "You're positive?"
She nodded. "I just confirmed with my ob-gyn this week. She's pretty sure I conceived some time around New Year's."
"And, you're still sure this is what you want?"
She pulled me into a tight hug. "Cole, darling, there's nothing I've wanted more. Thank you."
I kissed her softly. "It was my pleasure. But, we'll need to talk to Stelle."
She nodded, still smiling. "You mean, I need to talk to her. Don't worry, I will, soon. I'd like you not to say anything just yet, all right?"
"Sure, Mom." I placed a hand on her belly, but of course, there was nothing to feel yet. "So, this will be my brother or sister."
"Are you going to be all right not claiming your child?"
I thought about it and nodded. "Yes, Mom. I know that this is how it has to be. But, you know I'll do everything I can to spoil him rotten."
"As long as he learns discipline. I don't want a wild child when I'm in my sixties."
I laughed. "Don't worry. Estelle and I will help out."
"I know. Now, you go have your shower and then spend some time with your girlfriend. She needs your attention too, you know."
I kissed her and left, pulling the door closed. I jumped into the shower as soon as the water was warm, quickly shampooing and giving my body a quick scrub. When I was finished, I grabbed my towel from the hanger and dried myself while standing in the tub. I had started doing that when I was first able to walk unassisted after the bike crash. I could lean against the wall for support and didn't have to worry about wet feet sliding on the tile floor. I'd continued the habit when I realized it also avoided getting a chill.
I looked at the scars on my left arm and leg as I stepped out of the tub, recalling the work I had gone through to be able to walk and cycle again. And then, there was the newer, puckered little circle of a scar on my left thigh. That had not required any therapy, but it had been close. An inch to the right would have shattered my femur. Even if it had not caused severe bleeding, getting me out of the park with a broken leg would have been beyond Mom's capability. I still had occasional nightmares about what might have happened.
Moving over to the mirror, I lifted my hair a bit and I could make out the edge of another scar at my right temple. Because of that injury, I'd had no choice but to cut back severely on my cycling. I still went out frequently when the temperature was above freezing, usually with Estelle when she was available. But no more extended sprints or racing up the mountain. And, of course, no more competitive riding. That wasn't to say that I did not exercise. In fact, my physiotherapist had started me onto my current core exercise regimen -- weight lifting. I was not anything like Arnold Schwarzenegger, as I was focusing on functional strength rather than appearance. I wasn't in any way overly bulky, but there was no question that my muscles were larger than average, and quite well-defined. I focused more on high-rep training than maximum weight, so my endurance had built along with strength. That strength had been very beneficial over Christmas. The mirror told me in no uncertain terms that my body was in pretty good shape. I didn't have sharp six-pack abs, but I knew that I would not be willing to submit to the dietary restrictions that would be required to obtain that. Nor was it wise for me to press myself to exercise to the limits of my ability. Besides, I liked drinking Coke too much.
I dressed in a snug tee shirt and loose shorts. Then I took my notebook downstairs to review my day. I found Estelle sitting in front of the couch, her books spread in front of her. The television was on, and 'Boy Meets World' was playing. I grabbed a cup of herbal tea and sat down on the couch. As much as I liked Coke, I knew that caffeine after eight would mess up my sleep.
I shook my head at the show. "I can't believe that you're watching that."
"Not really watching it," she mumbled. "It's just background noise while I study functions."
"I can't study with noise in the background." I watched the show for a couple minutes. "Oh, Cory seems to be in big trouble, and Topanga does not look happy. Who's the letter from?"
"I'm not paying attention to it, so I wouldn't know. You could always help me study instead of watching the show."
I laughed. "Yep, that'll work. Did you forget that I'm not so good at school work?"
She looked back at me. "You did fine in math. It's words and stuff you have trouble remembering. Look, how do I solve this formula?"
She pointed at an equation that had several terms on either side:
"Okay. What are you solving for?"
"X."
"Well, all of your terms with an 'x' are squares, which simplifies things a bit. All you need to do is move the 'x's to one side and everything else to the other, then take the square root of both."
