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“I hate everything.” I grumble the words into my pillow, where they won’t be heard, and flop over onto my back. Again.
David says that a lot. I hate everything. When he says it, he could mean anything from, “Twyla didn’t put enough cocoa powder in my latte,” to, “All of my sweaters have been lost in a fire, and, oh yeah, the house burned down as well.” I’ve always thought it was very cute. (If he ever realizes exactly how adorable I think his dramatics are, I am in so much trouble.)
David’s assessment of the world is as black and white as his clothing—he loves everything, or he hates everything. He is not a man of weak opinions, and his conviction that he knows what is correct can annoy some people, but I am not one of them. I love that he knows exactly what he likes. The best thing that ever happened to me was the day he decided I was one of those things.
This is the first time I’ve ever tried using his sentence as a coping mechanism myself, and it was less satisfying than I’d hoped. I try the words again, but with more of a forceful David edge to them, not caring if they’re overheard this time. “I hate everything.”
And, god, I mean it.
I don’t think I have anything that doesn’t hurt right now. Even my hair hurts. How can hair hurt? It does, though. I swear each stupid strand is creating a sore spot where it connects to my scalp. My eyes burn. My head pulses with a sick headache. My throat feels like something is tearing it up from the inside. And despite the mountain of blankets David has me buried under, I’m so cold that my muscles keeping going rigid while I shudder with chills.
I’m miserable, is what I’m saying. Completely fucking miserable. And I hate everything.
David pads into the bedroom on socked feet, adjusting a surgical mask over his face as he comes. He stops just a step or two past the doorway, keeping plenty of distance between himself and our bed, where I’m sprawled and suffering. He looks soft and handsome in his Parisien sweater and black skirted pants that hug his legs and make a sexy mystery of his hips. I want him to crawl into the bed with me so I can curl myself around him. His eyebrows are raised and squished together in concern above the mask. “How are you doing, honey?”
I give him a baleful look and growl unhappily, which makes the pain in my throat spike, which makes me gasp, which provokes a coughing fit. “Unnggh,” I moan, once my lungs stop trying to eject themselves from my body.
“That good, huh?”
This time I settle for pouting at him. “I hate this.”
“I know. I can tell by all the complaining.”
His voice is full of gentle teasing and I’m certain he’s biting back a smile behind that blue mask. He knows full well he’s the chief complainer in this marriage. I clear my throat carefully to ease the tickle that wants to become another cough. “I never get sick. I have the immune system of a superhero.”
His eyes twinkle. “Mmhm, well, Captain Immune System, I think your day has come.”
I scowl at him.
“Can I bring you anything?”
“You.” I free one arm from the blankets and hold it out hopefully.
“I wish I could, honey, but I can’t risk getting sick. I promised to perform with my mother at the Christmas party this weekend, remember?”
I remember. I also remember that David has a phobia about germs and getting sick, and I suspect that has more to do with him keeping his distance than the looming performance. On the other hand, a disappointed and upset Moira Rose is something to be avoided at all costs, so maybe the two things are equally motivating.
The selfish part of me wants to whine, because having him near is genuinely the only thing I want right now, and he’s slept the last two nights in the guest room because of all the germs “that are undoubtedly stewing in that sickbed,” but I don’t. Another round of chills hits me so hard my teeth clack together. Despite himself, David dashes to my side, but then stands there fluttering his hands over the blankets instead of touching me, and when I cough again, he gives a startled squawk and runs from the room.
So much for “in sickness and in health.” Oh. Wait. We didn’t do those kinds of vows. That was probably a mistake.
A while later—time is fuzzy and I think I might have fallen asleep again—he returns with a large tray, the surface of which is completely covered with evidence of his love for me: water, juice, tea, toast, orange slices, acetaminophen, ibuprofen, cough syrup, the romance novel he wants me to read that I haven’t started, a piece of paper on which he’s written a medication schedule, a small triangle of the expensive Ecuadorian dark chocolate that Moira brought him after her last trip, which he normally hoards like a Gringotts goblin, and an envelope with a letter P and a heart written on the front. He sets the tray on the bed next to me and quickly backs away, out of what he considers to be the contamination zone.
I’m still staring at the tray in a half-daze, trying to comprehend all of it when he says, “Okay, so I’m going to go do the pick up at Heather’s farm and then open the store for a while before I have to meet my mother at town hall to rehearse.” He lifts both hands in a sort of half-shrug and rolls his eyes. “Apparently she’s ‘freshened up’ the medley and we need extra time with it.” He twists his engagement rings, one after the other, while his eyes travel over my face. “Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own today?”
I blink up at him and at then down at the tray he’s made me, and then up at him again, and smile, touched by his thoughtfulness. “Thank you for this. I’ll be okay, David. Promise.” But his face is still concerned, or at least his forehead and eyes are, which is all that I can see because of the mask. Covering for me at the store means he’s got a lot more to do today than he’d planned, and I don’t want him to worry about me on top of it, so I try to look less pitiful.
“You’re sure?”
“I am.”
“You’ll call or text if you need anything?”
“I will.”
“Or if you starting feeling worse?”
“I promise. Thank you for taking care of me.”
“Okay. I love you.”
“I love you.”
He blows me a kiss from the doorway and goes. I lay back and listen to him moving through the house, enjoying the homey sounds of him doing the same things he does every morning. I wait for the sound of the front door closing behind him, but I drift off again before it comes.
* * *
I’m lost in a dark forest, full of misshapen trees and vines covered with huge, sharp thorns. David is here somewhere, but I can’t find him. Panic is making my heart thud against the wall of my chest. Strange creatures with teeth and claws are chasing me as I run and dodge them with wild, jerking movements, while looking for David. I want to shout his name, but my voice won’t work. One creature catches my foot in its jaws and I scream silently and jerk awake. I lie there, panting, covered in cold sweat, trying to reassure myself. It was a dream. David is safe. I am safe. Everything is okay. I repeat it to myself until my heart and my breathing slow.
I have a feeling that I’ve made this loop—having a disturbingly vivid nightmare and waking from it—more than once, but my only clear memory right now is of the dream I’ve just had, and even that is disintegrating quickly. Mostly, I just remember a bone-deep terror that intensified the longer I couldn’t find David. Even now, thinking about it makes my chest tighten and I have to shove it out of my mind.
At some point, I kicked off all the blankets, and now I’m shivering so hard my muscles ache with it. I groan and pull the covers back over me, one by one. That I have to rest between each round of tugging the blankets back into place is not a good sign. I should take more medication. But first, I need to reassure myself that David is okay. Rationally, I know he’s fine and I’m just reacting to my nightmare, but I’m going to soothe myself by checking on him anyway.
I fumble my phone off the bedside table and tap the screen to wake it. I’m startled to see that it’s almost four o’clock in the afternoon. I’ve been sleeping for hours. I haven’t had anything to eat or drink from the tray David left for me and I’ve fallen off his carefully printed medication schedule completely. Shit. I take two of the ibuprofen and sip slowly from the glass of water while I thumb open my text chain with David. There are several messages waiting.
How are you feeling?
You’re probably sleeping, which is good. Text me when you wake up.
Love you
Hello?
Honey, please check in.
Okay, Stevie checked on you for me and said you’re asleep.
She said doing it was the only way to get me to shut up. Which. RUDE.
Love you
I tap out a reply.
I’ve been sleeping a lot. Sorry. I’m okay. How is your day?
The bubbles indicating he’s typing appear right away. I watch them for several seconds, but when it becomes clear he either has a lot to say, or is struggling through correcting all the incorrect autocorrects—they frustrate him endlessly and he always has to fix them—I put the phone down to wait. I pick up the envelope he left on the tray and open it carefully. I don’t want to tear through the place where he wrote the letter P and the heart because I already know that I will save whatever this is. I have a box where I keep all of David’s notes, even the silly post-its that he uses to talk to me when he’s mad enough to give me the silent treatment, but misses talking to me enough to convince himself the post-it notes are a permissible loophole.
Inside the envelope is a picture David took of himself with his Polaroid camera. His beautiful face fills the frame. His eyes are closed and his lips pursed in a kiss for me. I smile, despite how truly wretched I feel, and prop it against the glass of juice.
My phone buzzes and I pick it up to see the message David has finally composed.
Roland has been here three times today. I’ll let you fill in the blanks on that for yourself.
I chuckle softly at David’s restraint. If it were a normal day, he’d have a thirty-minute monologue on the experience, I’m sure.
Otherwise, it’s just the usual and I’ve got it all handled, so don’t worry. I even updated your little inventory sheet with the stuff I picked up at Heather’s.
I send him a string of heart-eye emojis and then, I’m going to sleep some more so don’t worry if I don’t answer for a while, okay?
Okay. He follows it with a kissy face emoji that I return before setting the phone aside and burrowing into my pillow. I fall asleep so quickly, it’s like someone flicking a light switch off.
* * *
I wake slowly, opening and closing my eyes in long, slow blinks that are probably actually me dozing off and waking up again several times. Finally, I’m able to keep my eyes open for more than a few seconds. The room is filled with a dim, gray light that could be twilight or early morning. I have no idea which, and that makes me feel unmoored in a way I don’t like. I’m thinking about digging around on the nightstand for my phone to see what time it is when I realize that the hand I would use to do that is being held. It’s David, of course. I can feel the ridges of his engagement rings between my own fingers where he’s laced our hands together. I try to turn my head, but something is preventing me. It’s him. He’s curled up next to me on his side with his lips pressed to my temple. He’s out cold, fast asleep in the act of kissing me.
Wait. He’s in bed with me. In the “sickbed.” And he’s kissing me. And he’s not wearing a mask! I twitch away in surprise and it’s enough to wake him. He mumbles sleepily. “You okay?”
I take a few seconds to do an inventory. I feel weak and hollow the way you do after a high fever, but I feel better than I did. The various aches and pains have faded to a background static. When I reply, my throat still feels scratchy, but not as bad. “M’okay.”
He finishes the kiss he started sometime last night and leans back so he can see me. He grimaces as he stretches his neck. “Yeah? You feel cooler.”
“Yeah. What are you doing in here with me? You don’t have your mask on.”
“You were burning up, honey, and so miserable. You kept calling out for me.” He presses his lips to my forehead and strokes my hair. “The mask scared you. I think you were having bad dreams.”
“Nightmares,” I croak and shiver a little with the fractured memory of them.
“You needed me.”
I stare at him, love for him swelling in my chest and making my eyes prickle with tears I quickly blink away. I never really thought we needed those “in sickness and in health” vows, but it’s still nice to have the proof of it. David has the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever known. He’s been through so much in his life and been given so many reasons to close off that big ol’ heart of his. I’ll never stop being grateful that he didn’t. I may have controlled my tears, but my face must be doing the thing it does—the thing that makes Stevie groan and pretend to gag when she sees it—because he leans up on his elbow to get a better look at me and smiles at my unspoken declaration. “I love you, too.” He cups my cheek. “Are you sure you’re okay, honey?”
“I am. I think the worst is over.”
“I’m glad.” He leans to kiss me again, but before he can, a small cough escapes him and startles us both.
We look at each other with matching wide-eyed stares and hold our breath. Nothing else happens and right as I’m thinking maybe it was just a tickle, he sneezes explosively. “Bless you,” I whisper.
He glares at me and flops over onto his back with a loud groan, clapping his hands over his face.
I bite my lips together. It’s not funny, but the urge to laugh is strong. I swallow it and lean up on my elbow so I can press a hand to his chest. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m going to take such good care of you.”
He drops his hands and growls. “You fucking better.”
I nod solemnly, but the laughter is still bubbling inside me and he sees it. He narrows his eyes at me. “You know what else you’ll be doing?”
I shake my head.
“Performing The Number with my mother.”
I know I look appropriately horrified because the irritation on his face becomes amusement. He climbs out of bed. “I’m going to change into sickbed attire.“ He flaps an arm at me as he walks away.“The sheet music is in my bag. Good luck.”
I flop over onto my back and mutter, “It’s break a leg.”