Unseen Loads

Unseen Loads

by Iggy Gavrilovic

Emily’s head jerked up as Miss J called out her name. A slim line of drool linked her mouth to her book page she had been reading.

The room filled with laughter. 

“Ah, Miss Barrett, perhaps you would like to tell us what you find so interesting about page 42,” Miss J said with a smirk. 

Emily blinked loudly at her words. She had made some notes about the book they had been reading, but her real notes filled the side- Mum's physio 3 pm Thursday, pay phone bill Friday, pick up meds. She had started to write cat food but had crossed it out as she remembered that their cat had left them 3 months ago. 

A paper plane landed on her desk, she unfolded it to read, “You drool in your sleep”. 

Emily turned to see Liam Carter sitting two rows back. His clothes were creased, and he had a new coffee mark on his shirt. She saw his left brow was slightly higher than the right, like he was always doubting something. She tossed the note in the rubbish and missed.

The store lights buzzed like bees. Emily held three plastic bags, the handles carving red lines into her fingers. She forgot the cart again, forgot to eat lunch, do math homework, answer Ms Berry’s emails about her grades. 

“Need help?” 

She sluggishly turned to her right to find Liam standing there holding a jug of milk and a bag of chips. His eyes got big seeing her bags full of soup cans, big rice bags, and sanitary products. 

“I'm good,” Emily said as she adjusted her grip. 

One of the bags tore with a loud rip. Soup cans and instant noodles fell out.

“Wow,” Liam exclaimed as a tomato rolled under the shelf. Emily got on her knees; she could feel the cashier looking at her. Liam got down too. 

“What are you feeding? An army?” Liam said. 

“My mum” Emily replied before putting her peanut butter back into her shopping bag. When everything was repacked, Liam grabbed two bags before Emily could protest. 

“Which way?” Liam asked. 

The walk home felt long. Liam changed his grip often; there were imprints on his fingers from the weight. 

“Do you always shop this much?” he asked. 

“Every Thursday,” Emily said before avoiding eye contact. Liam nodded, like that made sense. Emily turned into her house. Into view came old, cracking blue paint, a wheelchair ramp on the overgrown lawn. Emily grabbed the bags out of his hands. 

“Thanks for the help,” She said as she looked away. 

“How's the morphine going for her?” Liam asked. Emily stopped. 

“How did you-.” 

“It's MS, right? My mum had the same.” 

A car backfired down the street, and a dog barked. 

“Come inside,” Emily said. The house smelled like a hospital with a hint of burnt food. Liam put the food on the counter as Emily walked forward. “Mum?” Emily called out. “We’ve got a guest.” The wheelchair rolled out as Emily’s mum inspected Liam. 

“You’re not Jason.” 

“No, Mrs Barrett,” Liam said, “I’m-” Emily cut him off. 

“Liam from school. He helped with the bags.” Her mum’s look got soft. 

“Well then, go make him a hot drink, Em.” As Emily worked in the kitchen, she watched Liam. He didn’t peer at the medical equipment or the unpaid bills; he looked at the photos on the fridge. Instinctively, Liam moved the medication away from the hot steam of the boiling kettle. 

“You’ve done this before,” her mother said observantly. Liam’s hand stilled. 

“Yeah, my mum’s sick too.” 

“What’s her poison?” Her mum asked. 

“MS,” Liam said. “Diagnosed when I was 12. Mostly under control now,” 

Emily’s mother grunted in recognition. The kettle whistled and Emily poured the water.

The hospital smelled clean but sad. Emily counted the squares on the ceiling for the fourteenth time. Forty-seven, just like the day before. The chair squeaked as Liam collapsed into it beside her. “Tea," he said. “No hot chocolate left.” Emily took it gratefully. The warmth from the cup radiated into her hands. 

“They said it's just an infection,” she shared, “from the IV port”. Liam blew on his tea. Steam danced around his dry lips. “Mum calls it her ‘fight port’. Like she’s a battleship or something” they both chuckled.

“Mine too,” Liam said. “But my Mum calls it her ‘leash’.” He imitated his mum's raspy voice. “Tying me to this horrid earth when all I want to do is just drift off.” 

Emily's cup froze on the way to her mouth. “That's…. Dark.” 

“Yeah” Liam chuckled. “But that's my mum.” 

Their silence lasted for a while, in a nice way that Emily didn’t know with others. The kind of quiet between two people who understood each other so well.

“You know” Liam broke the silence. “There's a support group at the community centre for” he waved his hand between them “People like us.” 

Emily tensed up.

“I'm not some kind of charity case.” 

“I know,” Liam said calmly.

“Neither am I” Liam kept a steady voice. “But last year, when mum's pills stopped working…” He fiddled his hand around his cup. “There's this woman named Marjorie, who makes terrible cookies, but she knows the good doctors. And Dave, he keeps a list of drug stores that do after hours.” 

Emily could picture the room. A group of worn-out faces, all with the same unseen load. She should have hated the thought but something in it eased her mind a bit. 

“The next meeting is on Thursday.” Liam said. “Same night as your shopping but I'm sure you could reschedule.” Emily eyed her tea. She liked the idea of being able to be around more people like her, people who wouldn't always ask why she looked so tired. 

A nurse walked in.

“Mrs Barrett?” Emily got up, paused. 

“What time Thursday?” 

Liam smiled. 

“Meet you at the bus station at seven” 

As she headed down the hall to her mum’s room, Emily felt something odd. She wasn't counting her steps like she always did. She wasn't tracking in the back of her mind when the meds were needed. The load wasn't gone… but someone was sharing it. 

The hall smelled like new coffee and old rugs. Emily stood by the door, counting the ways out, three plus the fire escape. Near the chairs, a woman with gray hair held up a box of dark cookies. 

“You must be Emily! Liam said you’d show up today.” 

Liam sat back in a chair as people started to arrive. 

“Told you Marjorie’s cookies were bad,” he said. 

A man with a walking aid slid a book to her. “Page three,” he said, “Drug stores open on Sundays.”

 Emily took a seat. Nobody asked why she came in. Nobody had to.