“Chica, you—” He sits forward, attempting to shove the footrest down in one swift move. It doesn’t work. He tries again, and the chair jackknifes into the upright position with a thud. “Look, Chica, you aren’t gonna—”
She interrupts him with a snort. And then a giggle.
“Jesus, now what?”
“You.”
He looks down to find that his shirt has ridden up, exposing the vast white spread of his belly. “God damn it.” He yanks the shirt back down. “This fucking chair—”
“You look like a s-s-stuffed sausage.” She giggles like a child. Like Nora.
“That’s flattering, thanks.”
“No,” she says, drawing out the word. “No... a cinnamon bun!”
“That—doesn’t even make any sense, but... slightly better, I guess?”
“Oh, Cyril.” She giggles again. “I love you.”
It’s tempting to imagine those three little words, like rocks in a riverbed, tumble over in his mind as he sits, staring at her profile through the remainder of that long, watchful night. Perhaps he plumbs each spoken syllable for nuance, or wonders whether her utterance represents her true thoughts, unfiltered, or if they are simply the product of a drug-addled, post-operative haze?
No. He does not.
He does not think of them at all. (Not because he is indifferent, though he pretends this is true, but because he is unwilling. Like all good things, he stuffs those words down as deep as they will go.)
What does he contemplate, then, as he watches her breathe?
This asshole thinks of how much better things were before.
Before cancer, or prison, or war. Back when Tavis was playing the part of husband, and Cyril the puppeteer. Back when he sat in the solitary safety of his own room, enjoying perfect eu de Robin filtered through glowing pixels on a screen. He hadn’t gotten to fuck her, sure. But neither had he needed to deal with the gross corporeality of it all. And he’s not fool enough to think that being present in the flesh means he’s going to get a fuck, even now.
Especially now. Look at her. Carved up and stapled together like meat in a butcher shop. How the hell is he supposed to jerk off to that? And so he sits and watches her for the privilege of—what? Holding her hand?
He never signed up for this.
Gradually, they taper off the opiates, and, gradually, her filter returns. With it comes pain.
“Oh, Cyril, I feel like shit.”
“That’s the most rational thing you’ve said since you came out of surgery.” After another round of IRC networking, he’s switched gears to D&D prep. Jake’s mom, who has been anxious to nail down a weekly time-slot, has gotten wind of Robin’s surgery and is now peppering him with emails offering to start a Meal Train or GoFundMe. Ignoring her seems like an invitation to disaster, so he replies with a firm negative and a Zoom invitation for one week out. Now he’s skimming through an archive of bootlegged adventure guides.
Robin rubs her eye with a knuckle. “How long—”
He flicks the screen, then stops and marks a scenario that contains a dragon. If dragons are what Seth wants, then dragons Seth shall have. “Fourteen and a half hours. Your surgery went fine. You had a transfusion. No news on the cancer.”
“I take it we’ve had this conversation before.”
“Only about twenty times.” He taps the screen, marking another dragon-centric scenario. “Also, yes, the kids are fine, they’re asleep because it’s five in the fucking morning, no, you did not wet the bed, the catheter just feels weird and they will remove it tomorrow. Scratch that, later today. Yes, I know this chair makes me look fat, yes, I can ask someone for another pillow but not-now-don't-leave, and yes, you will absolutely regret it if you try to raise the head of the bed.”
“Good to know.” She knuckles her eye again. “It smells like—”
“Burnt toast, yes, I know. Your sense of smell hasn’t been damaged, I smell it too.”
“Looks like we’ve covered a lot of ground. Have you been here this whole time?”
“Where else am I gonna go?” He glances up from his phone. She is looking at him. “Wait, are you actually lucid? Jesus, it’s about time.”
“I should’ve warned you. I’m sensitive to—well, everything, basically. Did I say anything crazy?”
“Not unless you count comparing me to a giant sausage about two seconds before declaring your undying love.”
“Oh my God, I did not.” She snorts, and then moans. “Oh, don’t make me laugh. Ow.”
Chapter 16
A stranger coming out of the elevator stops to hold the doors, offering Robin a sympathetic smile as an orderly maneuvers her blue hospital wheelchair inside. “Fuck off,” Cyril growls, savoring the man’s startled expression as the double doors slide shut. The orderly gives him a sidelong glance, but keeps his mouth shut as the elevator jerks and begins its slow descent.
“Feels empty,” Robin says, quietly. She hugs her purse to her chest. “Going home without a baby in my arms.”
Cyril could not have said whether they’d been in the hospital for forty-eight hours or seventy-two or something in between—time is a blur, and the dense haze of yellow smoke that greets them out the lobby windows doesn’t help. He hefts the duffel bag higher onto his shoulder. “Listen,” he says to the guy pushing the chair. “We both know hospital liability bullshit says you have to push her all the way outside. But I’m not gonna leave her sitting in that smoke while I get her vehicle, so you can either pretend you pushed her out and I brought her back in, or you can sit here and wait until I bring the truck around. Your choice.” He leaves without looking back.
His cloth mask is no substitute for an N95 in fire weather, and by the time he locates Robin’s truck he’s wheezing. He switches the air intake to recirculate and turns the fan on high, then consults his phone for a map of California fires. There’s a fresh blaze in the vineyards west of Healdsburg, but it would have to jump the freeway and tear through most of the downtown before it got to Robin’s house. No roads blocked.
When he pulls into the loading zone outside the hospital entrance, he finds Robin and the wheelchair waiting on the curb. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he says, but the asshole orderly isn’t around to answer. He puts the parking brake on and climbs out of the cab. “Hey.” Robin is staring into space. “Chica, are you okay?”
She blinks. “Yeah. Just... tired.”
He grabs the bar on the back of the chair, which unlocks the wheels, and pushes her out to the passenger side of the truck. She hands him her purse and then grips the armrests, preparing to stand as he opens the door.
“Hold on,” he says, chucking her purse into the extended cab. “I got you.”
It’s impossible to scoop her out of the chair without hurting her, but he figures it’s better—and quicker—than her trying to stand up and climb into the cab. She wraps her arms around his neck and presses her face into his shoulder, muffling a whimper.
Once she’s in, he tips her seat back forty-five degrees, then realizes he can’t exactly buckle the belt across her abdomen. “Hold on,” he repeats, and goes to the camper to grab one of the pillows they’d packed but failed to bring in. On second thought, he pulls her bath robe out of the duffel bag, too. He places the pillow on her stomach before buckling her in—she winces—and uses the robe to fill the gap between the seat and the door.
“Didn’t know you were that strong,” she murmurs, tugging her mask off as he wedges himself behind the wheel.
“Didn’t know you were that light.” He attaches the belt extension and then buckles himself in.
“Well, I did just lose a pound of flesh.” She licks her lips and swallows, with effort. “You work out in prison?”
He hands her a water bottle from the pocket of the driver’s side door. “Once or twice.” He couldn’t be DMing or in the kitchen all the time, and there was fuck-all else to do other than sit with his own thoughts.
She smiles as she sips. Like he’s be
en holding out, and she’s caught him red-handed.
“Don’t worry, it won’t happen again.”
She closes her eyes and rests her head against the window, but the smile is still there. “We’ll see.”
He parks on the street outside the house and lets the engine idle, watching the cadence of her slow, steady almost-snore. Then a trio of pedestrians in N95 masks go by, chatting as if nothing whatsoever is amiss, and the rhythm is broken. She clears her throat, swallows, and lifts her head. He shuts off the engine and sets the parking brake as if they’ve just arrived.
Getting her inside, even via the ramp in back, is a slow, painful process that ends with her on the couch, tears leaking out the side of eyes squeezed tight, sucking in quick, ragged hitches of air. He makes a rapid circuit of the house, double checking to make sure all the windows and doors are sealed, and then uses a roll of duct tape she left in the kitchen to seal off the hatch to the second floor. When the house is as smoke-proof as it can get, he brings her pillows, a glass of water, and her duvet from the bedroom. Then it’s time for her to take some more painkillers so he helps her sit up enough to choke them down.
“There’s a hot water bottle in the hall closet—”
There’s a pile of blankets in the closet, too, and grabs one from the top, tucking it under his arm as he fills the water bottle in the bathroom sink. When he brings her the warm rubber bladder, she attempts to apply it directly to her stomach before hissing shit and handing it back.
“Cold. I think.”
He refills the bottle with ice cold water, which is apparently the correct choice, and then covers her with the duvet and the extra blanket. “I can turn on the TV, or—”
“No.” Her sigh is more of a shudder. “I... kinda just want to lay here and moan.”
So he parks himself at the dining table with her laptop, where he orders groceries and pretends he’s not watching her to make sure she’s okay until the meds hit her system.
When she dozes, finally, he grabs a Tupperware full of stale oatmeal raisin cookies Seth requested but didn’t like and shuts himself in the laundry room to stuff his face because he is angry.
Angry at the doctors who cut her open. Angry at the hospital for sending her home like this, so weak and fragile she can barely move. Angry at her, most irrationally, for having cancer to begin with. Every time she whimpers, all he wants to do is tell her to shut up, and he must mentally check the urge to grab her and shake when she moans in pain. He just wants it to stop. To be over with. For her to be herself again, so he doesn’t have to fucking care. It’s exhausting.
When the tub is empty, he belches, shifts the laundry from the washer to the dryer, and goes to check on her again. She is still sleeping—deeply enough that she doesn’t stir when the delivery person rings the doorbell.
He cooks.
When she wakes, he brings her lunch, but she closes her eyes and turns her face away from the tray. “I can’t.”
“I’m not your babysitter,” he says, “so I’m not saying I’m gonna make you eat, but I’m also not going to haul your ass back to the hospital.” He sets the tray on the coffee table and uses a shin to push it flush with the edge of the couch. “Your choice.”
She winces, then opens her eyes. “What—” she looks up at him, articulating the remainder of the question with her eyes. It is not the kind of thing he usually makes.
“The Percocet’s gonna make you constipated,” he tells her. “When you finally take a shit, this’ll help.” Pumpkin soup. Asparagus. Papaya.
She struggles to rise on one elbow, sucking in a breath as her abs flex. “How do you know all this?”
He hauls her up by the armpits, stuffing accent pillows behind her back. “Maybe you haven’t heard, but there’s this new thing? It’s called the internet.” The discharge nurse had also printed out about a ream of aftercare instructions, but Robin had been understandably preoccupied with more immediate agonies.
She dips a finger into the soup and puts it into her mouth. Her eyebrows go up. “A girl could get used to this,” she says. “If I asked for a little background music, would you tell me to fuck off?”
He almost does. But why the hell not. He seats himself at the piano bench and plays a few light, tinkling melodies before wandering into Cat Stevens. Somehow it’s always Stevens, with her.
She eats less than half the meal before pushing it away. “Cyril?”
He lifts his hands and releases the damper, silencing Tuesday’s Dead mid-chord. “Yeah?”
“I gotta pee.”
“Are you sure?” The nurses had helped her with the first agonizing trips to the bathroom, and he’s not eager to experience it firsthand. “I could bring you a bucket.”
“Now,” she says. Not angry, but urgent.
“Yeah, okay.” He closes the fallboard and comes around the end of the couch. “Maybe I should carry you.”
“No, I—I think I’m okay.”
“‘Drugged’ is not the same thing as ‘okay.’ Here.” He hooks his hands under her armpits and lifts, gently. She whimpers. “Are you—”
“Keep going,” she breathes. “Yeah. Just—oh God. Right there.”
He lifts. Very slowly. She clutches his arms, pressing her face into his chest as she lets out a mewl. Her legs slide off the couch and then she is upright, hunched over and still clinging to his arms. He walks backward, leading her into the hall and then the bathroom. When he lets her down on the toilet seat, her face is streaked with tears.
“Do you want me to—”
She starts to pee.
He backs out, leaving the door open a few inches, and studies the picture of her parents in the hall while she does her business. In the bathroom, she is weeping, though her sobs are strangled by her attempts to minimize movement of her abdominal muscles.
His arms, where she gripped him, burn like fire. Ordinarily her touch—once, years ago, she’d stumbled and caught him by the elbow for support—would be an event he’d review, catalogue, and pore over for weeks. Years. Now all he wants is for it to stop.
“Okay,” she says, finally, her voice soggy with tears.
He lifts her off the toilet and half-carries her back to the couch. When he sets her down on the cushion, she doesn’t let him go. “Everything hurts,” she whispers.
He puts his arms around her shoulders and squeezes, gently. Her body relaxes into him.
She sighs. “You give the best hugs.”
He had no idea how to respond to that the first time she said it; even less so now that she’s lucid.
When they repeat the bathroom routine again after dinner, she’s able to hobble with minimal support. Whether it’s because she’s healing quickly or the drugs he doesn’t know, but he’ll take it. Still, he waits outside the partially-open door. “Bed?” he asks, when she’s done.
She rests her elbows on her knees, bending her head to run her hands through her short hair. “You know what I really want? A shower.”
“Oh yeah, that sounds like a fantastic idea. How about I get you a washcloth and a tub of—”
“No, really. I’m feeling better. If I do it sitting, I think I’ll be fine.”
He spreads his hands. The aftercare instructions had suggested waiting a day or two, but it wasn’t expressly forbidden. “Your call.”
From the toilet seat, she directs him in lining up her hair and body products, a fresh bath robe and towel, her hair wrap, and one of his shirts, when he can’t locate a nightgown. He sets her cell phone on the counter, in case she needs him, and then stands outside the closed door, listening as she disrobes, cursing softly, and the water comes on.
He folds a load of laundry from the dryer, puts the kids' clothes away, and is surveying the sink full of dirty plates and pots and pans when he realizes the shower is no longer running. He raps on the bathroom door. “Everything okay?”
She says something, so at least she’s alive.
He cracks the door. “What?”
“I could
use a little help.”
He shoves the door in.
She sits on the granite shower seat where he left her, one hand propped against the wall, head bent, carefully breathing. Nude, of course, and soaking wet. Droplets of water glint like diamonds in her hair. “I just—I got tired out, I think.” She lifts her head, a little sheepishly. “Can you get me the towel?”
He grabs it off the counter shakes it open, shouldering into the shower stall to drape it around her torso. She is shivering. He puts his hands on her shoulders and rubs her down like a newborn pup, using the towel to chafe her arms and back. Because she’s seated, he ends up half-smashing her face into his gut.
“Not exactly how I imagined feeling you up.” He says it in jest, mostly.
“Yeah. Me either.”
Like she’s imagined it at all.
He leaves the towel wrapped around her and uses a hand towel to pat-dry her hair before tossing one of his freshly laundered t-shirts over her head. It’s long enough to reach her knees. “Come on.” He puts a hand under her arm and lifts her to her feet. She stands, still shaky, and passes an arm around his middle as the towel slides to the shower floor. He uses a foot to spread it out over the wet tile.
“Bed?”
She nods. “I was feeling all right, but I got under that hot water, and it just—I dunno, took it all out of me.”
“Give it a few days.”
“I know.” She shakes her head in frustration. “I should really know this by now.”
“You always have been a little slow on the uptake.”
She uses her free hand to give his belly a slap. “Hush.”
He lets her down on the left side of the king bed, holding her arms as she leans back. “You need, like, underwear or something?”
“The incision’s exactly where the elastic goes, so no.” She pulls the duvet up over her bare legs. “Going commando for a while.”
“Sexy.”
“Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
Cyril in the Flesh Page 19
