4 comments/ 31996 views/ 23 favorites Staying Put By: drlust "Mark?" The voice in my phone was so soft I could hardly hear it. "Yes," I said. "Who's calling?" "It's Chris," the voice said, a little louder now, but still not much above a whisper. I knew I recognized it, but I was still at a loss. "Uh, hi Chris," I replied, still groping for a face to go with the voice. "From swimming," she said. Then I knew who it was. She sounded like shit. "What's wrong?" I asked. "You sound pretty bad." I think she tried to chuckle, but it didn't work. "Yeah," she said. "I am. That's why I'm calling. I'm really sorry to bother you, but I didn't know who else to call." She paused, resting for a few seconds. "I'm really sick and have a doctor's appointment this afternoon and, well, I'm wondering if you could drive me?" "Of course," I said. I was surprised to hear her sound so bad. I knew she hadn't been to our early morning Master's swim sessions for a week or so, but that wasn't too unusual during the summer. People do take vacations. "What's wrong?" I asked. "I'm still not sure," she said, her voice very weak, like it was an effort just to talk. "I'm hoping the doctor can tell me today." "What time's the appointment?" I asked. "Not 'til two," she said. "It's downtown at the University Hospital." I did a couple of quick calculations, then said, "Okay. I'll be over around noon. Can I bring you anything?" "Some Gatorade and some saltines would be great," she said. "I'll email you directions to my place." "Okay. See you then." "Bye." Her voice was so soft I could barely hear her. --- On the way to Chris's house I thought about what could have brought her so low. The flu season had been over for a couple of months now and I hadn't heard of any other bugs or viruses circulating around town. Chris was one of the strongest, most powerful women I knew—she regularly competed in Ironman triathlons and kicked my butt every week in the pool—so whatever had her in its grip had to be serious. I also realized I didn't really know Chris that well, not in the way one would normally know a friend. We'd been lane partners three mornings a week for the past two years and so we'd chatted a lot between sets as we recovered our wind. I knew she was 40, which made her five years younger than I, that she was a grad student in our creative writing program, that she had gone to college in New England and that she didn't wear a wedding ring. I knew she had a brother in North Carolina, but she'd never mentioned him coming to visit her. But beyond that, I didn't know much. I didn't know if she'd ever been married, what kind of a job she had, or much of anything else. In fact, this would be the first time I'd ever been to her place. From the directions, I knew it was in the horse country west of town, but whether she lived on a farm or just in a house on a main road, I didn't have a clue. But as I drove down a series of country roads, each place I passed looked pretty impressive—big fieldstone farm houses with well manicured lawns, lots of white fencing and many beautiful horses. If the azaleas hadn't already been past their prime, it would have been spectacular. Finally, I saw Chris's mailbox and turned off the road onto a gravel driveway that led up a lane of old oaks. The midday sun sparkled in patches along the driveway as my car slid from shadow to shadow. When I turned a bend in the drive and saw her house and I knew Chris had money. This was no grad student's hideaway in the farm country. Her house looked like it had at least five bedrooms and there was a good sized barn to one side, a garage on the other. Either she spent a lot of time taking care of the lawn and gardens out front, or she had a service. Her Subaru Outback was parked out front, so I pulled in next to it, mounted the front steps and knocked. She didn't answer, so I let myself in and called out, "Hellooo." From off to my right came a feeble, "In here Mark." I turned in the direction of her voice and entered the living room. There she was, lying on the sofa, looking as shitty as she'd sounded on the phone. Her skin, normally tanned and healthy looking from all of her triathlon training, was pale, almost white, and pasty looking. Her eyes drooped just a bit and she just gave off this aura of feebleness that was hard for me to reconcile with the powerful woman I knew from the pool. As I walked toward her I realized that it was the first time I'd ever seen her with her clothes on. In the two years I'd known her, I'd only ever seen her in her bathing suit. Today she was wearing faded jeans, a polo shirt, and some running shoes. If she hadn't look so much like death warmed over, I'd have said she looked attractive. Today that would be lying. She just looked like shit. "Hey," I said, sitting down in a chair opposite her. "You don't look so good." "You can tell?" she said, in a weak attempt at humor. "Uh-huh." "Thanks for coming. I'm really sorry to call you like this, but everyone else I could have called was out of town and so I was getting desperate." For about five seconds that hurt my feelings just a little. I was clearly the last choice. But then I realized that we couldn't really count each other close friends, so I let it pass. "I'm just glad you called me. I'm off this summer relaxing anyway, so you gave me a good excuse to get out of the house." "Happy to help," she said ruefully. "What do you think you've got?" I asked. "I'm not sure," she said. "I've been really sick for four days now. The fever comes and goes. The rest of it's not very attractive—anything I eat either comes right back up, or is flushed through the other end in a hurry. I've been getting increasingly weak as a result." "Sounds awful," I said. She sure looked awful. "Do you think I could hold onto your arm as we walk to the car?" she said. "I'm feeling just a little woozy at the moment." "Sure," I said, standing, extending a hand, and helping her off the couch. She really was shaky. Because I knew how strong she was, it was that much more obvious how bad off she was. We shuffled together across the living room floor, out the door, down the steps and over to my car. She held onto the roof racks as I opened the door for her, then let herself down slowly into the seat with a sigh. She was so pale I thought she might faint right there, but I left her for a second to close and lock her front door. When I got back, she was slumped with her head against the passenger window, but I could see that she'd managed to buckle her seat belt and her eyes were open. No fainting yet. I climbed in, turned the car around, and headed back down the tree-lined drive. "You said the University Hospital right?" "Yes," she said. "You know how to get to the outpatient clinic?" "It's two buildings over from my office, so I pass it every day." "Great," she said. Then she closed her eyes and in a few minutes had drifted off on me. From her place in the country it was a good hour to the hospital, and I drove the whole way in silence, every once in a while laying the back of my hand on her forehead. She was running a fever, but wasn't burning up. She didn't even stir when I touched her. At the entrance to the outpatient clinic, I pulled into the patient loading/unloading area and left her to go find a wheelchair. This was a routine I knew well from several years of managing my father's end of life health issues. When I returned, she was awake and had the door open, but was sitting while she waited. She smiled at the wheelchair, but gladly accepted it. I pushed her into the entry hall waiting area then went off to park the car. When I returned, she hadn't moved. I wheeled her to the elevators, we rode up to the seventh floor, and found the offices of the gastroenterologist she had an appointment with. In the waiting room, I scanned a few magazines while she sat zoning in a chair. Under other circumstances I would have tried to make small talk, but I could tell she was concentrating on holding it together so I let her be. When the nurse called for her, I wheeled her over to the door, then told her I'd stick around the waiting room. "Thanks Mark," she said. "I really appreciate this." As soon as she'd left, I skipped out to the cafeteria for some coffee, then came back and got caught up on all the magazines I don't subscribe to and never will. After almost an hour and a half, a doctor stepped out from the back, looked at me and said, "Mark Johnson?" "That's me," I said. "Can you come with me for a minute?" she asked. I stood and followed where she led. It was to her office that was furnished with dark oak, framed degrees and licenses. "I'm Alice Markovic. Chris tells me you're a friend of hers," she began after I'd sat. "Yes," I replied. "We've known each other for a couple of years." "I'll get right to the point then," she said. "As you can see, Chris is very sick. The good news is that it's not life-threatening. In fact, the problem is pretty straightforward. She picked up a parasite while she was camping a couple of weeks ago. It seems she wasn't as careful about boiling some stream water as she should have been." "Sounds nasty," I said. "Well, yes," she said. "You can see for yourself how it is. She's very weak from the loss of calories over the past several days. In fact, if she weren't such an athlete, she'd have been admitted to a hospital by now." I nodded. "The reason I'm telling you this," she said, "is that Chris is going to need fairly constant care for the next several days—probably four or five. She tells me that the members of her family or other friends who might provide such care are all out of the area and unavailable and so what I want to know is whether or not you could provide such care for her. It would mean staying with her 24/7 until the drugs I'm prescribing take hold. She may even get a bit worse over the next 24-48 hours before she gets better." "I, uh, guess so," I said. I did a quick mental review of my life over the coming few days and the schedule was largely blank—one of the advantages of being a college professor in June. I had planned on doing a fair amount of writing this coming week, but that could certainly wait. "Because if you can't," the doctor continued, "I want to go ahead and admit her to the hospital today." "Which do think would be better for her?" I asked. "Honestly, I think being at home would be better. That's why I'm asking you this. In her weakened condition I'd just as soon she not be in the hospital. After all, there are a lot of other germs floating around here that she might pick up. So if you can take a few days off to help, it would be best for her." I nodded. "Sure," I said. "My semester's over and so my calendar is pretty free. The timing's good." "Excellent," she said, smiling. "I need to warn you about a couple of things. The first is that she is likely to vomit or lose control of her bowels several more times before she starts getting better. You need to be particularly careful about cleaning up any mess that occurs. This particular parasite would love to migrate from her to you, so you need to pick up some sterile gloves on your way home. I'd go ahead and get a box of 100. If any of her vomit or stools come into contact with your skin, wash immediately with soap and water, then go back to what you were doing. Is that clear?" "Very," I said. "From the look of her, I sure don't want the same thing." "Trust me," she replied. "You don't. The drugs we have to put her on are almost as bad. Very strong stuff. Mostly though, they'll make her sleep a lot. She should start showing signs of improvement in 48-72 hours. That means being able to hold down small amounts of food—crackers, that sort of thing. If she can't hold down food within 72 hours, I want you to call me." "Will do." "And you need to realize that she may need you to stick around her for five to seven days until she's strong enough to take care of herself." Four or five days had just become five to seven, I noticed. I nodded anyway. "One last thing," she said. "Patients in her condition sometimes hallucinate. It's a delirium brought on by a combination of the drugs, the weakness and the fever. Don't let it freak you out. I'd say half of the patients I see with this sort of problem experience some delirium. It can be a little unnerving, but it's nothing to worry about." "Thanks for the warning," I said. "Is there anything else I should watch out for?" "Dehydration is the biggest risk with patients like Chris. Just make sure she drinks lots of water for the next 24 hours. I'm sending you home with some liquid meals. After 24 hours try her on just a little of that—maybe a half a cup at first, no more. See how she does. Bananas are also good. But keep pushing the water. And if her fever spikes over 104, go ahead and take her to the emergency room. I don't want her to sustain such a high fever." "Got it." Dr. Markovic stood then, put out her hand and shook mine. "Chris is lucky to have such a good friend," she said. It didn't seem like the moment to tell her that I was more like an acquaintance. But, I guessed that by the end of the week, I would qualify as a friend. The good doctor stood and led me down the hall to the room where Chris was waiting. She was dressed and in the wheelchair. And she actually looked a little better. Dr. Markovic spoke first. "Mark says he's fine with taking care of you for the next few days. I've called in your prescriptions to the pharmacy downstairs and you can pick them up on your out. Call me if you start to get much worse, or if you haven't started getting better in 72 hours. Okay?" Chris nodded. She apparently didn't know that "the next few days" more likely meant "the next week." "Thanks Mark," she said, looking a little like she was going to cry. I waved her off. "My pleasure." She just smiled. So I took hold of the chair handles and off we went to the pharmacy downstairs to pick up her medications. The drive home was much like the one there. Me sitting quietly as she slept. At least I had a chance to plan out everything I was going to need to do to get ready to move in with Chris for a week. Or would it be more? When we reached her house the afternoon sun was slanting between the oaks that lined the driveway. It was quite beautiful actually and left me jealous. On my professor's salary I'd never live any place quite this nice. At some point I'd have to ask her where her money came from. --- After putting Chris to bed, I headed for home to pack for the week. I figured she'd be out a good bit, so I grabbed my files and my laptop so I could get some writing done. I'd noticed an exercise bike and an elliptical on her side porch, so I brought some gym clothes too. I'd forgotten to check her refrigerator for me-food, so I stopped at the grocery and stocked up for the week just in case. When I got back, I heard the water running in the bathroom connected to her bedroom. I knocked on her bedroom door, then poked my head in. Sure enough, she'd tossed her cookies in the bucket I'd left her, but also onto the floor. Fortunately, it was all water and bile, so it didn't look too bad. I went off in search of a mop and some cleaning fluid, which I found without difficulty. By the time I got back to the bedroom, the water had stopped running, so I called into her room. "Maid service." When she didn't answer, I opened the door and looked away. She was sprawled buck naked on the bed, legs arms akimbo. I stepped quickly back out of the room, then called in again. "Chris?" She didn't answer, so steeling myself for the embarrassment, I stepped in. Sure enough, she was out like a light. Just that fast. At least she was cleaned up. So I tugged the blanket out from under her legs and draped it over her. I couldn't help but notice that she was shaved and had small crossed lightning bolt tattoos where her pubic hair would have been. That and her breasts were as beautiful naked as they'd appeared to be in her swimsuit the past couple of years. There's nothing like being a serious triathlete to give a 40 year-old woman a killer body. They were neither small nor large, and lay there slightly flattened on her chest, her areolas a deep red. Her stomach was flat and her abdominal muscles rippled beneath the skin as she breathed. As I stared, I felt prurient and so turned away. I was the nurse here and I shouldn't be leering at her. So I set to work on the mess, being careful to avoid any contact with the liquids she'd spewed up. Like all vomit, it smelled rank. But I was a father, so I'd cleaned up my share of spew in my day. I just hoped she didn't crap in the bed. I left her door cracked, then went back the kitchen and cleaned up. I didn't feel much like eating at that particular moment, so instead I poked around the house looking for ways to settle in. The guest room was across the hall and down a bit from her bedroom, so I tossed the gym bag with my clothes in there. Also on the ground floor was a den that she'd set up as an office. Rather than impose myself on her space, I put my laptop on the dining room table and shoved the box of files I'd brought under it. Then I spent a productive half hour nosing around her house. It was tastefully decorated in a modern style I couldn't name. The walls were all painted muted colors and the furniture looked expensive. I was pleased to see lots of books. Years ago my realtor told me I needed to get rid of all the books in my house before I put it on the market. When I asked why, he said, "All those books make people nervous. Reminds them that they don't read as much as they ought to." I just couldn't follow that, but I did what he told me to and the house sold. What was missing from Chris's house was much in the way of personal mementos. In her office room there were various trophies from the races she'd placed in and a couple of finish line pictures with friends. But in the living room, there was no sense that she lived there—not photographs, no knick-knacks. It was just a bit too sterile or too lonely for me. It made me a little sad. Once I'd finished poking around in Chris's life, I decided I was hungry after all, so I fixed myself a large salad and a beer and read the new Michael Connelly novel as I ate. Connelly is one of my heroes. If I could write like him, or at least half like him, I could die happy. After I'd finished the food, I checked in on Chris. She didn't seem to have moved, so I retired to the living room with a cup of tea. If I was going to be up in the night, I figured more beer was a bad idea. Looking around that sterile room from my chair, I shook my head in wonder at the situation I found myself in. When I woke up this morning, I was a carefree divorced college professor with the whole summer ahead of him. Now I was Nurse Johnson with some serious responsibilities. Go figure. Chris needed to take a second dose of her meds at midnight, so I had a second cup of tea and followed Harry Bosch around Los Angeles for several hours. At 11:30, I took a shower, changed into some gym clothes, and then went in to wake Chris. She had moved a bit in the bed, but not much. I reached down, shook her gently and called her name. Getting no response, I shook her a little harder and called a little louder. Finally, she came to a bit, opening her eyes and looking around. "Daddy?" she said, focusing on me. "Daddy, what's wrong?" "It's Mark, Chris," I said. She looked at me quizzically for a second or two, then shook her head and said, "Oh, Mark. Hi. For a second I wasn't sure where I was." "I could tell," I said. "Listen, you need to take your meds. I want you to do this slowly." I handed her the pills and a cup of cool but not cold water. She gulped the pills and washed them down. I sat for a minute waiting to see if they'd come back up, but it seemed like she was going to keep them down. So I gave her more water until she'd gotten a full cup down. To keep track of what her intake was, I'd marked the water bottle with a sharpie. I felt pretty resourceful about that. Staying Put "I really, really appreciate you doing this," she said. "That's the last time you get to say that," I replied. "Until we're all done here. I'm happy to do it and I can do it, so stop saying thanks." She was about to protest, but I put my hand up to stop her, so she subsided. Then she looked down at the blanket and her brow crinkled. "How did I get here from the shower? I remember taking a shower, but I don't remember coming back to bed." "You walked, apparently," I said, "because you were in bed when I got here." "Was I...?" "Yes," I said. "Sorry about that," she said, looking a little sheepish. "Forget about it," I said. "If we're going to get through this, we can't be bashful about such things. I promise not to remember any of it." She smiled at that. It wasn't much of a smile, but it was something anyway. Over the next ten minutes or so, she managed a few more sips of water, but it was pretty clear she was fading again. I turned off the light and sat with her as she conked out. Then I slid her back down into a more comfortable position in the bed and left her. Sometime in the night, I couldn't tell when because I didn't have a clock in my room, I woke up to the sound of her voice. My parental reflexes kicked in and I was about to run to her room, when I realized she wasn't calling for help. She was talking in her sleep. I couldn't make out what she was saying, so I pulled on a t-shirt and padded down the hallway to her door. Light shone through it into the hall, so she must have turned on a lamp. When I peeked in, Chris was sitting up in bed, her bare torso exposed, trying to snatch something out of the air. Whatever it was, it was buzzing around her head, and she was making furious grabs at it—all of them unsuccessful. If it hadn't been so sad to watch, it would have been comical. As I watched her for a minute, I realized that she was becoming increasingly frustrated by her inability to catch whatever it was that she could see and I couldn't, so I stepped into the room to help. I remembered from dealing with my father when his meds had made him hallucinate that it was pointless to try to argue with someone in this condition. It just frustrates them more. So I played along. "I'll get it," I said as I approached her bed. She slumped back against the pillows. "Thanks Daddy." I picked up a magazine from her nightstand and spent the next couple of minutes pretending to shoo some flying thing out of the room. When I closed the door on it at last, she was smiling at me. "I knew you could do it." "That's what I'm here for," I said. As silly as the situation was, I also wanted her to cover up. Something about her nakedness was vaguely upsetting. Part of it was that her body was so attractive, but more than that, it just made me feel guilty being there in the room with her exposed like that and completely unaware. So I sat next to her and pulled the coverlet back up to cover her breasts. To my surprise, she smiled at me and pulled it back down. "It's okay Daddy, I know you like to look at my boobies." Okay, now this had crossed the line into weird. "Sweetie," I said, in the voice I used to use with my daughter when she was little. "You aren't feeling well, and I want you to go back to sleep, okay?" Her face crinkled up. She looked sad. "What's wrong Daddy? Did I do something wrong?" "No sweetie," I said. "It's just very late and I need to go back to bed." "Are you sure?" she asked. "I'm not tired." "Well, I am. I have to go to work early so I need to get to sleep, okay?" She pouted for a moment, then snuggled back down into the bed, but pointedly pushed the covers down toward her waist, keeping herself exposed. I realized I was feeling just a tinge of panic over the situation. "Will you sit with me while I fall asleep Daddy?" "Sure, sweetie," I said. I turned off the light and sat with her in the almost dark room. The moon shone through one of the windows and lit a far corner, casting just enough light for me to make out Chris's form in the bed. I could see that her eyes were closed, but I could also see that her hands were now on her breasts massaging them softly. The sight of her hands on those beautiful breasts caused a stirring in my gym shorts that I willed to go away. I didn't like to think about what her delirium was bringing up for my viewing. It was the sort of thing people shouldn't know about each other unless they're married, and maybe not even then. The revulsion I felt at the thought of what might be the source of her delusions made me angry and the anger made any feeling of excitement subside. Fortunately, she soon stopped what she was doing and before long her breathing was deep and steady. Now that she was out, I felt like it was safe to touch her, so I felt her forehead. She was burning up, well over 100. I wavered, thinking I ought to take her temperature, but I really didn't want to wake her up again, so I let it slide. When I got back to my room I found my watch and checked it. 2:35. Shit! The next morning I woke up with sunlight streaming in the window onto my face. I was groggy from the previous night, but felt more rested than I probably should have given that it was only 6:45. On my way to the kitchen, I checked in on Chris and saw that she was still out. Good. Her kitchen was pretty well stocked even before the stuff I brought and I was pleased to see that she liked good coffee as much as I did. In a few minutes I had a pot going and a bagel in the toaster oven. I remembered seeing a newspaper box down at the end of the drive, so I slipped on my running shoes and walked down to the main road. The morning was crisp and fine. It had been one of the coolest springs I could remember and so far the summer boded cool as well. On the way back to the house I skimmed the headlines, but it was a slow news day seemingly. When I came back inside, I peeked in on Chris one more time just to make sure she was okay before I settled in with the paper. She hadn't moved, which worried me just a bit, so tiptoed in and felt her forehead. Her fever had broken, but she was still warm. The vomit bucket was empty, so that was good. I went back to the kitchen, washed my hands, and ate. When I'd learned all there was to know about the world, I went back to my room, took a quick shower, then went back to her room to wake her up and play nurse. It was time for her meds. To my surprise, she was sitting up in the bed again, and had a t-shirt on. That was a good sign, of course, because it meant she'd been out of the bed on her own. "Good morning," I said. She looked up at me and she looked worried. "I see you've been up and about," I ventured. "Yeah," she said. "I made it to the bathroom and got some clothes on." "Well, that's a good sign, no?" "I guess," she said. "Why are you here?" Okay, maybe not such a good sign. "Don't you remember? Yesterday I took you to the hospital and Dr. Markovic asked me to sit with you for a couple of days until your medications start to take hold. You've got an intestinal parasite, remember?" She shook her head. "No. I don't." "Sorry," I said. "But it's the reason I'm here. And I'm here in your room right now because it's time for you to take your next dose." This made her look even more suspicious. I could tell she was worried that there was something going on here that she didn't like. So I picked up the two bottles of meds from the night stand and showed them to her. "See, these are the prescriptions we picked up yesterday. There's your name on them." She examined each bottle carefully, then nodded and said, "Okay." I shook out the doses from each bottle, poured her some more water and handed them to her. I remembered from being in the hospital so long with my dad that it was important to watch patients actually swallow their meds, so I sat down and stared pointedly at her as she put them in her mouth, took a sip and swallowed. "You need to drink all of that water," I prodded. "Water is part of your cure." I could tell from the look on her face that I'd busted her. She hadn't swallowed the pills at all. This was going to be difficult if she continued to see me as dangerous somehow. But she just shrugged her shoulders and drank all the water in several sips. I was tempted to make her open her mouth to show me that she'd swallowed everything, but I decided that would just make things worse, so instead I just sat with her for a bit. "Your fever seems to have broken," I said just to say something. "That's good," she said. "It looks like it's going to be a nice day," I continued. "That's nice." "No sign of rain." "Good." "You're coffee is very good." "Glad you like it." I was just about to put my hand out to feel her forehead when she sat forward in the bed and picked something I couldn't see off the bedspread. She held it carefully between her fingers and then handed it to me. I put out my hand to take it and she carefully placed something invisible in my palm. She looked pissed. "What?" I asked. "I can't believe you left that in my bed last night." "Left what?" "The needle, of course. You know that's very dangerous. I could have rolled over on it." Okay, here we go again, I thought. I was really glad the doctor had warned me that this could happen. I'd been through it with my dad, but it can still be scary if you don't expect it. "Sorry," I said. "I'm not sure how I could have missed it." Then she leaned forward again and picked up another invisible thing and handed it to me. "Another needle?" I asked. "Yes," she said, her voice full of frustration. "And there's another one, down by my feet. Get that one too!" I took the invisible needle she was holding and then made like I was getting the one from by her feet. That seemed to satisfy her for a moment. So I made her drink some more water. As long as she was holding it down, I wanted to get more into her. She was suspicious, but did as I told her. We sat together in silence for a few minutes. Then she leaned forward again and picked up another needle. I could tell this was something that might go on for a while, so I tried to change tacks. "Look, Chris, I'm going to change the bedspread so there won't be any more needles in the bed, okay?" "I'd have thought you would have done that last night," she snapped. "Tell me where I can find another one and I'll take care of it right away." "The hall closet, of course." I left the room, found another bedspread. Then I peeled off the old one and acted like I was inspecting the bed for any stray needles that might have fallen out. Seeing none, I put the new spread on the bed and then sat back down next to her. Agitated as she was, I didn't feel like I ought to leave her. So we sat together in silence for a few minutes listening to the birds sing outside. I was just beginning to think she'd calmed down when she turned on me, anger in her eyes. "You asshole!" "Sorry?" I asked, not sure where she was going with this one. "You fucked me last night, didn't you?" "No, I certainly did not." "Then why was I naked? Huh?" "Because you'd taken a shower and come back to bed naked. The only part of you I touched all night was your head to see if you had a fever or not." "You expect me to believe that? Get the fuck out of here!" "Sorry," I said. "I can't. Dr. Markovic put me in charge of you for a few days, so I'm going to stick around here to make sure you're okay." "Fuck you!" she yelled. If she'd been feeling better, it would have been a lot louder. Her face was contorted and red. I just smiled at her. "It's okay, Chris," I said. "I'm here to help." "Get the FUCK out of my house!" "Sorry," I said, "buy you're going to have to get used to the idea that I'm staying." She started to climb out of the bed then, so I stood, put a hand on each shoulder and gently but firmly pushed her back down. She was a very strong woman, but I'm a lot bigger and she was very sick, so it wasn't difficult to get her back onto the pillows. For just a second I thought she was going to spit at me, but she finally just slumped back. The effort of fighting me had been too much for her. As I sat back down, she rolled to her side facing away from me and after a few minutes, I could see that she was asleep again. Whew. People can get very agitated when they're delirious, as I'd learned with my dad, and if she was going to stay agitated, it was going to be a long couple of days. I made a mental note to search the place carefully for guns just in case she had another moment like that while I was asleep. While Chris slept away the morning, I went out onto the porch and rode her bike for an hour. Then I sat down at the table with some more of her good coffee and worked on an article that had a deadline just three weeks off. Despite the oddness of my situation, the words began to flow and before long, I'd managed ten good pages. Pleased with myself, I decided to stop while I was ahead. Plus, it was lunchtime. I'd poked my head in on Chris once or twice just to make sure she was okay, but she was taking the sleep cure, so I let her be. One thing I learned as a parent was to let sleeping babies lie. I figured it applied to 40 year-old women too. After a sandwich out on the screen porch, I was contemplating Chris's back yard, trying to decide if she had a yard service or not when I heard her call out. I jumped up and jogged back to her bedroom. She was sitting up in the bed and looking pretty bad. Her face was grey and she was gulping air, her fists clenched on the bedspread in front of her. "Hi," I said, crossing the room to the chair next to her bed. She turned toward me, a pleading look on her face. I wondered if she recognized me this time. Before I could say anything else, though, she leaned over and barfed in the general direction of the bucket I'd put next to the bed. Unfortunately, I was too close to the bucket, so a large quantity of the stuff she tossed up landed on me. Suppressing my own gag reflex, I did the only thing one can do in such a situation. I took hold of her head with one hand and the bucket with the other and improved her aim for her. The last few heaves all landed where they should have and then she just kind of collapsed onto her side, her head at the edge of the bed. I sat for minute, stroking her hair and back, trying to be as soothing as I could. When it seemed she was really done, I set the bucket down and headed for the bathroom to clean up. My shorts were a mess, so I shucked them and washed myself off in the sink. Then I wrapped a towel around my waist, got a couple of clean washcloths and ran one under the hot and one under the cold water. These I took back to the bed, where I found her in the same position I'd left her. "Chris, roll over onto your back for me," I said. She complied. She looked a lot less grey, so I wiped around her mouth with the warm cloth, then laid the cool one on her forehead. The corners of her mouth twitched, so I knew it felt good to her. It was something my mom always did for me when I felt like shit and I carried the tradition over with my own kids. Then I used the warm cloth to wipe up the vomit that had gotten on the floor and left the room to get some new pants. When I got back, she was out again. Her fever was back up and the room smelled pretty bad, so I went back to the kitchen, got the disinfectants I'd used earlier and wiped the floor and bed down one more time. I sure hoped that was the last projectile vomit. As the afternoon wore away, I figured out how to get her computer online, then spent some time answering emails and poking around on the net. I looked up her parasite and was suitably grossed out by the pictures of the little fuckers. If I were lucky, I wouldn't be a host. They were nasty. Around 4:00 I heard her stirring again, so I went to peek at her. Once again, she was sitting up in bed, but this time when I came in, she smiled at me. A much better sign. I sat down next to her and felt her head. Whew. She was still burning up, so I decided to take her temperature. She knew what was up and opened her mouth as soon as I picked up the thermometer. When it beeped, I looked at it and was relieved to see that she had only a 103. "How're you feeling?" I asked. "I feel sick, Daddy." Here we go again. "It's Mark," I said. She smiled at that. "I know your name Daddy. But I don't like to call you Mark." Okay, so her father had the same name. Great. "I want you to try to drink some more water sweetie," I said. "Okay. And I feel a little hungry too." That at least was a good sign. It was the first time she'd shown any interest in food, but given what had happened to the last drink of water, I was reluctant. "Let's try some water first, okay?" "Whatever you say Daddy." I poured her a cup of water and over the next couple of minutes she sipped it and held it down seemingly without difficulty. I told her about the weather, the latest news, and what I'd learned about her parasite. "That sounds gross," she said, making a face. Her voice had just a hint of a little girl's lilt to it. "A little, but the medicine you're taking is going to kill the little buggers off pretty soon. Then you'll be well in a few more days." She smiled again, seeming happy. "Daddy, can I please have something to eat? I really am hungry." "Okay sweetie, I'll go get you some crackers." "Thank you." I got up and went to prepare her first solid food in several days. I arranged a couple of saltines and a couple of Ritz crackers on a plate, poured myself a glass of ice tea and headed back to her room. When I stepped in, I almost dropped the plate and glass. Chris was still in the bed, but was on her elbows and knees, her ass toward the door and she was furiously fingering herself, her panties and t-shirt on the floor next to the bed. "Chris!" I blurted. "Come on Daddy. I know what you want. I'm ready. You know I am." "No!" I said, trying to sound like a stern father. "You lie back in the bed and cover up this instant." "No yourself. I want your big dick Daddy. I'm a good girl, you know I am." "Chris! You stop this right now. I want you to lie down in the bed and try to eat these crackers I brought." Even as I said these things and was repulsed by the scene in front of me, I realized that I was having an involuntary reaction to the show she was putting on. Goddamn you, I snarled silently to my cock. Stop that! But the more Chris's fingers danced in her pussy, the more difficult it was for me to make my own reactions go away. "Now, Chris!" "Please Daddy," she pleaded, now running a finger up to her asshole and beginning to probe it. "Please do me Daddy. I want you to be happy. You know I do." I walked over to the bed, put down the plate and glass and took her by the shoulders, turning her over in the bed. This had the desired effect of forcing her to stop what she was doing, but not of putting the whole thing to an end. Instead of subsiding, she looked at me with a look usually seen in porn stars. Then her hand shot out and grabbed my cock in my shorts, squeezing me. "See, I know what you want Daddy. Look at you. I can feel how much you want me." "No," I said, pushing her hand firmly away from my hardness. "I don't and I won't. I'm not your father. I'm your friend Mark and I'm not going to do this." Her other hand was now back in her crotch, working furiously just below those crossed lightning bolts. I could smell her arousal and it was making it more difficult for me to get control of myself and of the situation. I wish I could say that I was entirely, one hundred percent noble at that moment. If I had been, the thought never would have crossed my mind that I could do what she was begging me to do and she'd never remember a thing. Her body was amazing and it had been more than two months since I'd had sex with anyone but myself. Who would know? As I had this thought, blood surged into my cock as though my body were willing me to cross the line into evil. For a heartbeat, I stared longingly at her body, feeling the electricity roiling up and down through my nervous system. Then she spoke and broke the spell. Staying Put "But Daddy, you always did me before. Why not now?" I let out the breath I'd been holding. "Because you're sick sweetie," I said. "You've got a fever. Let's wait until you get better." She shrugged her shoulders then and said, "Okay, I guess. If you promise you still love me." "Of course I love you sweetie. I always will." Jesus Christ this was about as creepy as it got. What I really wanted to do was run out the door, get in my car and flee from her and from the darkness within me that had just poked its head up and looked around. "Sit up now and let's try some of these crackers," I said, my voice raspy. She clambered up to a sitting position, her legs open, her scent wafting up to my nostrils. I reached down and grabbed the bedspread and pulled it up to cover her. "I don't want you to catch a cold too," I explained. Then I handed her a saltine and a cup of water. My hand was shaking so badly that I almost spilled the water. I could taste my own bile, a consequence of the mixture of my desire and self-loathing. She munched contentedly on the cracker and drank her water like a good girl. Over the next few minutes she managed to get four crackers and a whole cup of water down. Then she yawned a very large yawn and settled back into the pillows again. "I'm sleepy Daddy," she said. "Okay sweetie. Take your medicine first." I gave her the meds, which she took and swallowed like a good girl. "You go to sleep now. Call me if you need me." "Remember your promise," she whispered as she faded. I got up and left the room, praying that she was done with those hallucinations. In the kitchen I found a bottle of Tequila and poured myself a healthy shot. That helped. I realized I'd been sweating like a pig, despite the cool temperatures, so I went back to my room and washed away the rank smell of my fear and as many of the memories of what had happened as possible. I was ashamed of myself for the way I'd reacted and terribly sad for her. This certainly qualified as too much information. After I had some dinner, I went back to her room and sat, staring at her placid face as she gently snored. She looked so peaceful lying there in bed. So innocent. But I knew she had a terrible secret. I thought of my own daughter, now 20 and at Cornell, how I used to sit in her bedroom at night when she was sick, willing her to get better and how I would do anything to protect her. Then I thought about Chris's father and what he must have done to her. Tears welled up in my eyes. It was just too horrible to contemplate. Sometime in the night, I heard her calling me again. This time I listened before I jumped out of bed. I didn't want to find myself back in the same situation. But she was calling me by name. "Mark?" I crossed the hall to her room and peered in very hesitantly. Thank God. She was sitting up in bed, her t-shirt back on. The little lamp on the bedside table was on low. "Hey," I said. "What's up?" "I'm sorry to wake you up, but could you bring me some more water. I'm really thirsty and getting dressed took more out of me than I thought it would." "Sure," I said. I noticed she'd finished off the water bottle next to the bed. A very good sign. When I returned with a new water bottle, she smiled weakly. "I've been a pain in the ass, haven't I?" "Only moderately," I said. "Nice," she replied. "I'm really sorry about this." "I told you to stop saying that yesterday," I said. She took a healthy drink of the water I handed her. "Did you? I've been sitting here trying to remember what's been happening. I have a pretty good memory of going to the doctor and getting in your car to come home, but after that it's all bits and pieces. What day is it?" "Friday." I felt her forehead. She was cool for the first time since I'd come over two days earlier. "Wow," she said, shaking her head. "I've been really out of it, haven't I?" "You could say that," I said. She put out her hand and rested it on my knee, giving me a gentle squeeze. "You're a good friend Mark. Thanks." "My pleasure Chris." Her clock said 1:45, but I could tell she was wide awake. "Any interest in what's been going on in the world since you zonked out on me?" "Sure." So I told her the news and the weather, even though we'd been through it in the afternoon. I figured she didn't remember any of that, which was good. I tried to use my most boring professor voice, hoping my drone would lull her to back to sleep. After a bit, she yawned again, which made me yawn even wider. "You need to go back to bed Mark," she said, watching my mouth split my face in two. "I'm okay here. You rest." I thought about arguing, but decided that I really did need the sleep, so I thanked her. When I stood, I leaned over and kissed her on the top of her head. "I'm glad to see you feeling better," I said and then padded back to my room and collapsed. When I woke up the next morning, it was clearly late. The sun was strong and the birds had mostly stopped singing their morning songs. My watch said 9:23. I stretched the contented stretch of someone who is well-rested, got up, showered, shaved and dressed. By the time I made it out into the hallway it was close to 10:00. When I peeked into Chris's room, she was sitting up in bed wearing a pair of bright orange reading glasses, reading a novel. The water bottle on her night stand was almost empty. Good and good. "Good morning sunshine," I said. She glanced up over her glasses at me and smiled. "Good morning yourself. I was starting to think I needed to hire a new nurse." I stuck out my tongue at her and crossed to my chair next to the bed. "By any chance have you taken your medications this morning?" "Yes, I have. At 8:30. By any chance could I have some breakfast?" "Absolutely. You managed some crackers yesterday, so how about some fruit this morning? I got some bananas and melon at the market on Wednesday. They ought to be easy on your stomach. And I have that liquid lunch stuff the doctor sent us home with." "That sounds great," she said. "I suppose coffee is out." "For you my dear, but not for me. I'll be right back." In the kitchen I started a pot of coffee for me, then made us each bowls of fresh fruit—a large one for me, a small one for her. No sense taking too many chances with her delicate stomach. When enough of the coffee had dripped for me to have a cup, I poured one, put it all on a tray and returned to her room. "You know it's torture for you to have coffee in here when I can't drink it." "Let's call it an incentive," I said. "The sooner you get better, the sooner you can have coffee. It's excellent, by the way." "Thanks, I guess," she replied. Then she set to work on the fruit. I noticed that she ate a bite of each then let it settle in her stomach for a minute or so. Smart woman. But it seemed to sit quietly, so in a few minutes she polished off the bowl I'd given her. "Any chance of seconds?" "Why don't we let that get comfortable in your stomach for a bit first," I said. "Sure. I bet you've had a lot of trouble with me the last couple of days." She glanced meaningfully at the vomit bucket still stationed next to her bed. "No more than I could handle," I replied. "Remember, I'm a father, so I'm used to this sort of thing." "Right," she said. "Well, I hope I haven't been too gross." "You got right up to the edge of too gross, but didn't go over." "That's a relief, I suppose." While I finished off my own bowl of fruit, she sat quietly. Then she asked me, "Was I delirious? I mean, the way the doctor said I might be?" I thought about how to answer her. I didn't want to lie to her, but I also didn't want to get into the details of what had happened. I decided on the truth, nothing but the truth, but not the whole truth. "Yes," I said. "You were." She smiled just a bit at that. "Well, I hope I was entertaining." "You mean like when you were trying to catch a bird that was circling your bed." Her hand covered her mouth at that. I almost reached for the bucket, but realized it was to cover her embarrassment. "Oh God. You didn't take any pictures did you?" "Shit. I knew there was something I should have done. But no, I was too busy pretending to chase the bird out of the room for you to remember my camera." "That's a relief. Any other fun moments?" "Well, you and I spent 15 minutes or so picking needles out of your bed. Apparently I'd left them there by mistake. You weren't too happy about that." "Was I mean to you?" "Nah. But you did order me to leave immediately." Her hand returned to my knee and gave me another little squeeze. "I'm glad you didn't." "That was never in doubt. What you don't know about me is that I spent several weeks at the hospital with my dad when he was hallucinating. It was much worse than you." Okay, that part was a lie. Parts of the last two days had been much worse than anything my dad's subconscious had conjured. Her hand hadn't moved and I was very aware of it. But unlike yesterday afternoon, I didn't want to push it away. "I didn't know that about your father. I'm sorry," she said. "Thanks, but don't be. He died peacefully and, because his mind had gone, he was blissfully unaware of the fact that he was trapped in a hospital. We should all be so lucky." Since I'd told her all that I wanted to tell her about her own hallucinations, I changed the subject and told her a funny story about one of my dipshit colleagues at the University. It got a couple of giggles out of her. Maybe I was the only one who thought it was seriously funny. Then she asked again for more food, so I decided to risk it. I went back to the kitchen and fixed her some more fruit and put out some crackers as well. When I went back to her room I peered in carefully, just in case she'd had another transformation, but she hadn't, so I went it and gave her breakfast number two. While she ate, I walked down to get the paper and then, while I drank a second cup of coffee, I read her the news. It was very pleasant sitting there in her large, airy room, reading to her and discussing the day's events without any sort of a schedule. I'd been running on a schedule for some many years that I rarely took the time out to just relax like this. Finally, she yawned again and said, "I think I'm going to take a nap if you don't mind." "I don't mind a bit. I'm just glad to see you doing so much better." I crossed to the bed, picked up her plate and glass and gave her another kiss on the top of her head. She smiled at me, so I guess she liked it. That afternoon, she actually felt well enough to come out to the screen porch and watch the backyard world go by. I made her one of the things my mother always made for me what I was recovering—little bits of chicken sautéed in lots of butter. It was a comfort food and nutritious. She wolfed it down along with some Gatorade and more crackers. In the evening, we sat together in her room, she reading her novel, me wondering how Harry Bosch was going to catch the serial killer he was after. Around 9:00, we both got tired, so it was lights out for us. The next morning dawned wet. A steady rain was beating down on the roof when I woke up and stretched. I hadn't slept quite so late this time, so I actually beat Chris awake. I made us both breakfast, found an umbrella in the front hall closet, and went to get the paper. Fortunately, it was warm, because the wind was blowing and I got wet from the waist down. Back inside, I quickly changed into dry shorts, then put our breakfast on a tray and went into her room. She wasn't in bed and the shower was running, so I retreated from the room with my coffee and the paper. Now that she was lucid, I definitely didn't want to see her in the buff. As I sipped the coffee and stared at the paper, I argued with myself about bringing up her father. I knew I wouldn't do it right away, not until she was stronger, but I felt like I had to let her know that I knew, that I cared, and that she was a good person. She saved me from the trouble of continuing my internal debate. She came into the kitchen, set her tray down on the counter and took a seat next to me at the table. "Mark, can I ask you a question?" "Sure." "Yesterday morning when I woke up, I was naked in the bed, my clothes on the floor next to me. Why was that?" I felt trapped. If I didn't tell her the truth, it would look like I was covering something up and I hadn't prepared a lie to tell her on short notice. So I decided to plunge ahead. I took a deep breath, let it out, and started.. "The night before you were hallucinating pretty badly. You asked me to get you something to eat, so I went to the kitchen and when I came back, you had taken off your t-shirt and underwear." She looked mortified. "Oh God," she moaned. "I didn't." I nodded sadly, "You did." "What did I do when you came back?" "Well, let's just say you tried to seduce me," I said. It seemed that the fewer details the better in this case. "I am so sorry," she said. "I can't believe I did that. It must have been very embarrassing for you." I thought about making a joke, but decided this wasn't the time for that. "A little. You were very insistent, but I fended you off." "Was I at least tasteful?" "I guess you could say that," I said. "And you did finally take no for an answer, so it worked out okay." She put her hand on mine where it lay on the table between us and said, "Thank you for being so understanding. I can't believe I did that." "Don't worry about it," I said. "When you're delirious, your mind wanders down paths you would never take in real life." She looked at me kind of funny then. I was just about to ask her a question when she asked me, "Who says I wouldn't take that path in real life?" I smiled. She was just being nice now. "Thanks," I said, "But now you're starting to sound like you're hallucinating again." "We'll see about that when I get better," she said. Then she patted my hand and continued, "After all, you've already seen me naked and discovered all my secrets." That last comment must have made me flinch, because she looked at me closely and said, "You know, my tattoos." I exhaled then. "Yes, I'm sure there's an interesting story behind them." She leaned back in her chair then, closed her eyes for a second, opened them and said, "They're not really that old, you know. I got them after I raced in Kona for the first time three years ago. My partner and I swore that if we finished in the top 20 of our age group, we'd get tattoos to commemorate the moment. I finished 16th and she was 19th, so the next day we went to a local tattoo parlor and had them done. We used to call ourselves "Thunder" and "Lightning." You can guess which one I was." "No need to guess," I said. I was just about to ask her what her partner's tattoo looked like—I couldn't quite picture thunder as a tattoo—when she continued. "We felt like a couple of 18 year-olds when we did it. I think she's sorry now that she did, but, well, I guess I'm proud of mine." "I'd say finishing so well at Kona is a lot to be proud of." "Yes," she said. "It was actually my best finish. This year I move up an age group, so I'm hoping to do better. But this parasite is going to set me back a bit. The race in is October, you know." "I do. I watch it every year on TV. But I don't think I've ever seen you." "No," she said. "I've never made the broadcast." "Do you still train with your partner?" Her face clouded. "No, she left last year." I dawned on me then that this "partner" of hers was probably more than a training partner. "Sorry to hear that," I said. "Don't be," she said, shaking her head firmly. "It's better for both of us. It wasn't working out." "Sorry about that too," I said. She waved me off. "You probably need to do some work or something. I saw your laptop in the dining room. I going to go sit in the back yard for a bit. You go do what you need to do." So I did as she suggested. As settled into the workspace I'd created in her dining room, I contemplated the contradiction between her having a female partner and her flirtation with me just a minute before. Hmmm. Over the next several days Chris recovered quickly. Her body was in such good shape that as soon as she turned the corner, her natural conditioning kicked in and before long, she was up in the morning fixing her own breakfast, or even taking short walks down the driveway and back. I did notice, though, that her stamina was still low, if improving. By day seven she was clearly able to take care of herself, so over lunch one day I broached the subject of leaving her on her own. "Do you want to go?" she asked, looking disappointed. "Well, no, not really," I said, meaning it. "I just figured you'd want to have your life back." She put out her hand and laid it on my arm where it lay on the dining room table. "I'd like you to stay a little longer if you don't mind. I kind of like having you around. I've been here all by myself for too long and it's nice to have company. If you can stand to stick around a couple more days, I'd appreciate it." "Sure," I said. Truthfully, I was enjoying being there too. I was getting a fair amount of writing done, and Chris was good company. We'd fallen into an easy routine around meals, exercise, and chats on the back porch. "Plus," she said. "I'd like to fix you a thank you dinner before you go. I think I'll be up to that in a day or two." "Deal," I said. She smiled then and so did I. Two days later, she announced at lunch that we'd be having a celebratory dinner that evening—to celebrate her "full recovery." This was a bit of an exaggeration, but she was almost fully recovered now, although she was still taking naps in the afternoons. That evening as I sat out on the screen porch watching the sun drift lower in the sky, Chris busied herself in the kitchen. It smelled very good. She'd brought me a novel and a beer, so I was content. When dinner arrived, it looked and tasted as good as it smelled. Chris, it turned out, was an excellent cook—far better than I am and I like to think I'm pretty damned good. She stuck to water, but I had two more beers with the chicken, orzo and veggies she'd prepared. By the time we were both done, I was feeling pleasantly buzzed. When the time came to clear away our plates, she stood and carried off hers and mine, then in a few minutes, I heard a low humming sound from the back yard. It sounded kind of like a generator, and I hadn't heard it before. I was just about to get up to investigate, when Chris appeared in the back yard with two towels in her hands. "Come on Mark," she said, beckoning me out into the yard. I followed where she led, trying not to weave, and found myself face to face with her hot tub. I'd seen it, of course, in my nosing around the place, but hadn't messed with it. Now it was on and bubbling away happily. "I, uh, didn't bring a suit," I said. "Screw that," she laughed. "You've already seen me in the buff, so strip down and we'll be even." At that, she began peeling off her clothes, so what could I do? Stand there and look like a dork? Not likely. I began shucking my shorts as gracefully as I could, while trying not to stare at that body I'd already seen several times. She beat me into the tub, so I had to climb in with her staring directly at me. She tossed me a water bottle, and said, "Welcome to paradise." "Thanks," I said. "I'm jealous, you know. I've always wanted a hot tub, but could never afford one. And now that I can, it seems too decadent for just me." She was sitting in a way that kept her nipples just at the water line. As the waves of the tub roiled around them, they would appear and disappear beneath the waves and the sight was driving me nuts. I tried not to peek at them, but was having a hard time resisting. And what I was seeing was causing me to have a hard time in other ways.