Done Adulting Vol. 1 Ch. 10 (Patreon)

Eric came to more quickly the second time, chest down on what his body knew was cotton, and he felt no pressure on his hips anymore. He moved. He was sore. He was stiff. He felt bruised.

“He’s moving a little,” he heard a voice whisper. Eric didn’t know which way he was facing except away from the voice.

“Okay. Wait outside so he doesn’t get frightened again, and I’ll wait for him to wake up,” he heard another voice say. Both voices were feminine. Eric’s brain wasn’t foggy this time. He knew the voices were five to ten feet away. He heard soft steps on what he pictured as carpet or a rug. If the voice was moving to the hallway, and her voice was away from his face, it meant he was facing into the room or into a wall.

He heard the soft squeak of wood being compressed, and he pictured the other voice sitting down into a chair. Eric didn’t want to move yet. He wanted to remember what had happened.

Eric had gone under anesthesia a couple times in his life, and while some people forget what happens right before going under, Eric always remembered. Cheryl was holding his hand and kissing him on the forehead. Tish was standing at his left with a syringe just before he closed his eyes. He had told himself not to fight the sleep. And nothing after that until he woke up and saw the figures above and around him. He didn’t remember the details of them well. He remembered trying to run and not being able to. He remembered fighting. He remembered fear.

He could fit the pieces together in his mind. He remembered what he had been told: you won’t wake up until you’re home with your new family; you might be frightened, and they will have medicine for that. He had woken up in the arms of a giant and been frightened and tried to run and tried to fight and been given a sedative. A powerful one, judging by how quickly he’d passed out.

The puzzle took shape in Eric’s mind without opening his eyes, and knowing he was being watched, he held perfectly still. He needed a moment uninterrupted, and he took stock of what he knew:

I have no idea where I am

I’m surrounded by people more than twice my size

I physically do not fit in this world

A few of my body parts hurt

I cannot fight, and I cannot run

This is the reality I have to work within

For all that, it felt familiar. In a childhood of bouncing from place to place, feeling dislocated and surrounded by strangers in a new place was an intermittent but frequent enough occurrence that Eric learned how to deal with the changes in a way that made it less likely he would be hurt physically or emotionally. It was instinctual then, and he had to recall it now:

Accept everything that is offered

Ask for nothing that is not offered

Say ‘thank you’ for everything, whether you need to or not, or mean it or not

Apologize whether you need to or not, or mean it or not

Ask only questions you need the answers to

Do not emotionally commit to anyone or trust anyone or show emotion to anyone

Be cautious, in other words, and deferential, and don’t say or do anything that could be interpreted as ungrateful. Figure out what worked and what didn’t work, and then figure out how to fix or get around what didn’t work.

Back then, it was never Eric’s fault, those moves. It was just what happened to him, like catching a virus. This time, Eric was wondering if he hadn’t irretrievably ruined his life.

Eric took the risk and opened his eyes, and as he suspected, he was staring at a wall. Between him and the wall were white balusters large enough to be narrow columns and close enough together he couldn’t squeeze between them. Shifting his head just enough to turn his eyes toward his feet, he saw the same thing. A blanket was over him, and he felt he was naked under it.

I’m in a crib, Eric thought, and when I roll over, there’s going to be a she-giant sitting in a chair staring at me. Eric wasn’t normally irritable, but then, he didn’t find himself in such an absurd circumstance. Maybe the old rules, Eric thought, are going to need to be bent if this is going to work.

Sighing and figuring he may as well get it over with, he closed his eyes not to hide but by reflex, opened them again, and without otherwise moving asked, “Did I hurt you?”

Eric heard the creak of the wood again, and without meaning to asked in a curt voice, “Please! Could … could you just … stay there a second? Give me a moment … please?” He heard the wood creak again and breathed a sigh of relief. Already bending my rules, he thought.

“No, sweetheart, you didn’t hurt me,” she said.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know you didn’t. It’s okay. How do you feel?”

“Sore. Where am I?”

“You’re in Tosca, in Itali.”

That wasn’t a helpful question, Eric thought. If she had said ‘the third star past Jupiter’s smallest moon’ he’d have had a better idea of where he was.

Sighing, Eric began to push himself up and felt his right wrist hurt. He rolled over and felt his right hip hurt. He tried to sit up, got about halfway, and laid back down with a groan.

Wincing, he heard the wood squeak a little, but not all the way. He stared at the ceiling, decorated a sky blue with puffy clouds. He hadn’t turned far enough to see the voice.

“I’m okay. What did they do to me? The doctors.”

“You were quite a sick little boy. They said they didn’t often see a little your age with some of your problems.” The voice gentle, concerned.

“Like what?”

“Oh, geez. A bunch. You had some torn cartilage in your wrist they repaired. There was some scar tissue in your right hip they removed. They replaced your gut flora. Straightened and whitened your teeth. Fixed your near-sightedness. Did a procedure to restore the soft tissue in your major joints. A couple minor cosmetic procedures to take some of those years away. Got rid of your little potbelly.

“The major thing was you had three stomach ulcers they had to repair.” She chuckled. “The doctor said your insides belonged to a little twice your age.”

Eric knew about his wrist and hip; he remembered those injuries. The ulcers were a surprise, but not surprising; he felt a little pain from time to time, and given his job, it made sense. “How long have I been here?”

“Here? You’ve been in Itali twenty-nine days. I think that makes forty days since you left there.”

There, Eric thought, here used to be there. Eric chuckled at a thought: this is like Dorothy going through the looking glass and ending up on Brobdingnag.

“You should feel fine in about five days,” she volunteered. “Do you want anything for the pain?”

“No, thank you. What time is it?”

“Mid-morning. Are you hungry?”

“Yes.” Eric decided it was time. He turned his head to his right. Sitting about eight feet from him was a woman in a rocking chair with blond hair. She was wearing an athleisure outfit, or whatever they called it here. She wore no makeup that he could tell, and he put her age around forty, or what would look like forty by Earth time; he wasn’t sure how the difference in orbits and revolutions impacted how they measured age here, but it had to in some way since it impacted how time was measured.

“Is it okay if I get up,” she asked. Eric was surprised by her voice. She sounded like a human. He had assumed a creature so large would have a much lower, louder voice. She sounded just like a human woman.

“Yes.” She stood up not slowly, but slower than it was obvious she was able to. She’s trying not to frighten me, Eric thought. It made him smile a little.

He couldn’t tell with her seated, and now he could only estimate. He guessed she was ten or eleven feet tall, almost twice Eric’s height. Eric was several inches shorter than the average man back home; now he appreciated how good he’d had it.

She was otherwise proportioned just like a human. She had an athletic build. With her standing to give perspective to the scene, Eric figured the mattress of his crib was about six feet from the floor and the top of the rail about six feet above the top of the mattress, or about six inches above Eric’s head if he were to stand up. She crossed the eight feet between them in two small steps.

She lowered the crib rail and bent over him. It was intimidating. He knew she posed no threat, or least hoped so, but she was intimidating nonetheless. He remembered his first trip to the zoo, seeing a real bear for the first time. It was on the other side of six inches of safety glass, but the sheer size of it – nothing he saw on TV or in books or his imagination prepared him for it. Her standing over him drove home a fact: he was not in control of his environment.

“I’m going to help you sit up. Here – squeeze my hand if it hurts,” she said as she offered him her right hand and worked her left under his back. He sat up, winced, and tightened his grip around her pinky and ringer fingers. His entire hand fit in her palm, somehow disconcerting him. Once upright, his belly didn’t hurt. The blanket fell from around his shoulders, leaving his chest bare.

Eric looked down at himself. His chest hair was gone. He had only the faintest blonde hair on his forearms. Reaching up to his face, he felt no morning stubble. He sighed again, feeling irritated, not that he didn’t have body or facial hair but that change was happening – no, had happened – so fast, and no sooner had he processed one change than he discovered the next.

“If I take my hand away, can you stay up,” she asked.

“Yeah.” She slowly took it away, and he let go of her other hand. He felt a little pang is his stomach wall and leaned forward. It went away. He looked at his right wrist. It was sore, but he didn’t see any evidence of an incision. He rolled his hand around slowly; it moved fine. He supinated his forearm, the motion that always hurt because of that injury. It hurt a little worse than before.

He looked at his stomach. He smiled; he didn’t see a six pack, but the little bit of pudge he developed while sitting in an office was gone. Gently examining his abdomen, he saw six incisions with a thin layer of clear glue over each one. He took a deep breath and winced, but it wasn’t that bad. He looked up and saw above him a soft face with a gentle smile. He smiled back, a polite smile, his lips flat but his eyes warm as if to say, well, here we are.

“How about we get some clothes on you,” she said as she turned toward a dresser. He watched as she took out a pair of yellow footie pajamas. He’d have preferred sweatpants and a t-shirt, but footies were popular among young people at home. It made more sense here than there. There, he thought, and frowned a little.

“Are you wet,” she asked as she closed the drawer and walked back toward him.

Eric looked puzzled. He looked down at himself and then around, wondering where he would be wet, and from what.

“Um … where?”

“Your pants, silly,” she said with a bemused smile as she pulled back the blanket from Eric’s lap.

Eric looked down and saw what was unmistakably a plain, white diaper. Eric looked back up, turning away from her as he rolled his eyes and let out an unimpressed smile. He sighed, again. He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly. Maybe this is a post-surgery thing, he thought, after all, you’ve been unconscious for forty days. But then he thought back to the adoption agreement: your arrival age range is binding, but the details of it are at the discretion of the adopting party. Eric started to say something and decided against it. This is not a big deal considering, at least not yet, he told himself. One thing at a time, and maybe he’d rather not know the answer.

“Mom, can I come in,” he heard a voice ask behind him. Looking over his shoulder, and up, Eric saw a blond head peeking out from behind the doorframe.

“Yeah, come on in. I’m just getting him dressed.” Eric nearly gave himself whiplash when he felt something press against his penis. “You’re just a little wet; it can wait a bit.”

He quickly looked down to see her taking her hand off his underpants, and quickly back up as he mouthed to himself, “I am?” And quickly back and over his shoulder again as he felt another person standing above him. It was enough to make Eric a little dizzy, and he brought his hand to his head and rubbed his forehead and eyes.

The girl was a slightly smaller, trimmer, younger version of the woman who was threading footie pajamas up his legs, obviously her daughter. She was beaming down at him.

“Can you lift him up a bit for me?” The pajamas had reached his hips. He started to lift himself and felt a little pain shoot through his right hip.

“Sure.” The girl reached under his arms and lifted him enough for her mom to get the pajamas under him, and she brought them to his shoulders. Eric instinctively raised his arms, and though he easily could on his own, she took each wrist and worked it through the sleeves herself, and he was quickly zipped into his new outfit.

“I’m going to pick you up very gently, okay? I want you to tell me if it hurts, even a little,” the mom said. Eric nodded, and putting one arm under his knees and one across his back and under his left arm, she picked him up into a cradling position.

Bent at the waist, it did hurt, and Eric groaned with his eyes shut tight. “Relax, just relax,” she said, “I’ve got you.”

Eric did, letting his weight slump into her arms. Without contracting his abdomen to hold himself upright, his belly didn’t hurt.

Opening his eyes, he was much closer to her face, which meant he was at least ten feet off the ground. Eric had never liked heights, and he didn’t want to look down, and he didn’t want to look scared in front of her. This is an exercise in trust, he told himself. And your ability to keep your anxiety in check. He thought he was doing well, so far.

She smiled down at him, a big smile, but the wrinkle in her forehead showed concern. “Better?”

“Yes … I … I don’t like heights,” he said, even though he had just told himself not to show he was scared.

“Aww, that’s okay kiddo. You’re safe with me – promise. Let’s go get you a bottle,” she said as she turned toward the door.

A bottle? Eric grimaced, confused. Why a bottle?

The girl stepped into his field of vision as he was carried to the door. In a sing-songy voice, the girl said, “Hi, Jamie. I’m Amanda.”

Worry lines forming instantly around his eyes, Eric started to sit up, and the pain quickly forced him back down. Who the fuck is ‘Jamie,’ Eric yelled inside his head, Did I get the wrong family?