I rubbed the back of my neck when I heard Peter.
You’re burning your candle at both ends these days, Gil. That’s why you’re so tired.
Tell me something I don’t know. I grumbled. I know, but the ideas get into my head and they need to get out before I forget them, or they drive me nuts.
I rubbed at my neck some more. I wish you could touch me. I need a neck rub. I whined in my head.
My eyes immediately started watering.
I guess that means you’re actually trying to rub my neck? I asked.
It was worth a shot. You know I can feel you like a boundary. It’s not touching exactly, I can’t move through the same space you’re in.
Interesting, but can’t you walk through walls? Now I was curious, what were his limitations in this form?
I seem to, but I can’t walk through a tree or a plant.
Living things. I noticed. You can’t pass through living things. But I can pass through you, can’t I? I tried to stick my arm through the space I thought he was occupying.
Hey! That’s not easy on me. Normally it feels like a magnet repelling me, I get moved or pushed out of the way. But yeah, you can move into my space, I can’t move into your space. It’s a one way street, I guess.
What other cool ghostly things can you do? I chuckled.
I have incredible powers of observation.
That’s ’cause you can get into my head.
It’s called using my advantage. Peter smirked.
Fine, advantage boy, what are today’s keen observations?
You are tired. Tonight you need to go to bed on time. No writing.
What are you? My mother? I asked like the smart-ass I was.
No, I’m a wise old man.
Old, yes, wise, not so much. I snorted.
Peter was right, I needed rest, and to not be up so late again.
I made it home after a very wimpy work out. I ate a simple dinner of rice, shrimp, and seamed veggies drowned in teriyaki sauce. It sounds fancy, but the shrimp were pre-cooked and frozen, the veggies I had already chopped on Sunday, and the rice was already made. I microwaved everything in stages, and then drowned it all in sauce.
I sat and ate as I mindlessly watched soccer with Mike. He couldn’t tell me who was playing, but the goalie in red was delicious. I put my dishes in the sink then headed to bed. No writing. I tried to text David for a few minutes, but he wasn’t very responsive, so I said goodnight.
I woke up sore. At first, I thought I over did it on the work out, then I realized it was the tireds catching up with me. Another few hours in bed would feel great, but I had places to go and people to see—otherwise known as having to go to work.
It was a no makeup kind of tired day. Of course, as soon as I made it in and people began asking me if I felt well, I realized I should have at least put on some mascara. I dug out the mini mascara and eyeliner I kept in my purse and snuck off to the bathroom to put on some eye makeup. Apparently, it didn’t help. Now, I looked tired but with makeup on.
It was going to be a long day.
I began trying to figure out how to save the sketches I ruined the previous day, for what I hoped, would be a final round of approvals before I began the airbrushing. Everything felt sore and crampy. I tried to do a few stretches before I wandered off to see if there was a pot of coffee in the breakroom. The caffeine and the moving about did not help. I really did need a full-body massage.
My boss called me into his office. My organs-on-people printouts lay on his desk. The look on Adam’s face did not say, ‘These are terrific.’ His words didn’t either.
“Gil, look at these.” He slid the images across his desk to me. “The client sent them back.”
“Yeah, I did those yesterday. What’s up?”
“You are a visual expert on human anatomy, are you not?”
I smirked, that sounded like a fantastic title. I should not have gotten cocky so fast.
“Please explain to me why that cis-gendered man has a uterus.” He pointed at an image of a young, bearded man, with a full set of female reproductive organs superimposed over his lower abdomen.
I really looked at the images, finally seeing them. I closed my eyes and started crying. I didn’t feel good—I was stupid tired, I hurt. I already screwed up one project yesterday, now this one.
Hours of intense computer work completely useless. Not only had I put the uterus on a man, I gave a little girl a prostate gland. Out of all of the images the only one I got right was the lungs on the runner.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
“I’m sorry.” I sniffed, not sure if I apologized for breaking down or for messing up.
“The client thinks you are completely incompetent, and has chewed me out for allowing this to happen.” Adam sounded like he wanted to pass that chewing along, as it was, his stern voice was intimidating as hell.
I put my hand out to request the job folder. “I’ll fix it. I’m sorry.”
“Yes, you will. You’re lucky it was delivered ahead of schedule.”
I shuffled back to my cube. The project yesterday had taken four hours—today it took all of my time. I gave the corrected job files with printouts to Adam. I apologized for messing up again.
Adam flipped through the prints. “Job’s done. Go home. But we need to talk in the morning.”
I didn’t walk so much as felt like a zombie dragging my dead limbs home. I was beat by my mistakes and worried about job security. My ego hurt. My head hurt. My whole body hurt. It was an incredibly long walk. By the time I got home, I didn’t feel like eating. The thought of cooking anything was exhausting.
Mike insisted that I eat something. He put a bowl of lentils and rice in front of me and wouldn’t leave until I ate some of it. After a few bites, Mike told me to go to bed. I didn’t feel like arguing with him. I made my way to bed via my tub. I turned the on the taps and let the tub fill. A nice long soak in a tub full of hot water and lavender oil was exactly what I needed. I turned the water off and went to get my jammies.
As I slipped into bed, I realized I had a tub full of warm water getting cold. I think I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.
7
I burned hot like lava and froze colder than ice. I was hot. I was cold. I felt like crap. Well, no, not crap. Crap was soft and squishy and warm. I was none of that. I felt hollow in the back of my throat and everything had edges. My head swirled in figure eights, switching directions. There was no point in trying to focus. I had to keep still, except I could not stop shaking. I wanted to be warm and ignore the sulphur taste in the back of my mouth coming from my stomach.
I was too cold to move to find socks. Of course, moving to get socks would make my head start to twist and that would trigger my guts—best to lay still and hope to fall back asleep. I did not want my guts to get in on the action. No throwing up. Throwing up—bad.
It felt like hours of shivering, aware that I pretended to be asleep while holding still, I managed to finally pass out a few minutes before my first alarm went off. I couldn’t move. Everything hurt. I knew if I waited long enough, the obnoxious beep-beep-beep-beep repeat would turn itself off. I managed to slip back into unconsciousness and ignore the radio alarm that began blaring.
“Gil, that racket has been going off for almost an hour, aren’t you going to get up?”
I groaned, “Cold, don’t feel good.”
Mike came over and placed a cool hand on my forehead after he turned off my alarms. “Oh, babe, you’re burning up.” He walked away. I immediately missed him. Misery loves company. I realized that was not what that expression meant, but I was miserable and did not want to be alone.
He returned with a damp washcloth, some pills, and a glass of water. After helping me to sit up, he handed me a pill then the water.
“Where’s your phone, Gil?”
I pointed to where it charged on my dresser.
“Who do I text?” Mike asked picking up my phone.
“Holly,”
I croaked.
I sank back under my blankets. I know Mike moved around a bit but nothing beyond that. I was taken by blessed sleep. At first, I had no dreams. Then I did, and they were weird even by my standards. When I woke up again, there was a pitcher of orange juice and a glass next to my bed, and Peter sitting by my feet gently petting my legs.
Gil, you need to get up and take something. I could hear him in my head as clear as every other time, as if he were actually in the room speaking. As usual, I could not see him if I looked. Gilligan, you are burning up. Get up, Gil, come on, honey. His voice was urgent. He really wanted me to move.
I clawed out from under my pile of warm blankets. I didn’t want to move.
Gil, I can’t help you, you have to do this. Peter coaxed.
I moaned. I did not like moving. Every muscle complained. Breathing hurt the top of my head. My hair hurt.
C’mon, honey, some medicine, then you can go right back to bed.
I wasn’t going to move.
You probably need to pee anyway, he said on purpose. I have a very suggestible bladder, and clearly, he knew that. It worked. I didn’t move fast, but I moved.
I swear my rug felt like it had been in the freezer, my toes were really cold. I shuffled slowly toward the bathroom.
Peter hovered behind me, following me in. I didn’t care. I tinkled. That was it, barely anything, a few drops of liquid. I wiped, and then washed before opening the medicine cabinet. I grabbed a bottle of baby medicine before shuffling back to bed. Peter insisted that I sip some orange juice. I did.
It took some concentration for me to focus on opening the bottle. Once open, I sucked down an eyedropper of children’s medicine, recapped the bottle, and lay back down.
I could tell Peter was inspecting the bottle. He would have picked it up to examine it if he could. Any movement he could enact on an inanimate object was always by accident, and never repeatable. It was nothing he could do on purpose, nothing he could control. I know it caused him a great deal of frustration.
Gilligan, this is for babies, it isn’t going to be enough.
Clearly, he thought I was delusional in my current state. I was feverish and had focus issues, but I wasn’t delusional. Most people asked why I kept baby medicine. I was appreciative that I could head talk to him at the moment. Making sound hurt my throat and head, but mentally talking didn’t hurt so much. Of course, because I could talk to him at the moment didn’t mean I was capable of forming intelligent, cohesive sentences. I like to think my conversation flowed smoothly, but I’m pretty sure most of my answers were really grunts and garbled word combinations.
Adult dose too strong.
Too strong? he asked incredulously. ‘Too strong?’ asked the man with an opioid addiction.
It’s a redhead thing. It’s either too strong or does nothing. I only need a baby dose for fevers.
A redhead thing, huh? Never heard of that before.
You’re not a redhead. I groaned. Too much talking. I slipped back to sleep.
Every time I woke up, no matter how briefly, Peter sat there on the end of my bed watching me, petting my feet. He made sure I woke up long enough to take medicine again.
Sleep was always better than awake. In sleep, crows talked nonsense and I danced with polar bears in dump trucks. Awake, I felt like I had been hit by the dump truck. Awake or asleep, I was so cold. Until I wasn’t.
At some point in the afternoon, I got hot. I kicked all my blankets off, and tried to peal my clothes off. It was as if my body went from Arctic conditions to equatorial vacation in the middle of a desert. Lava burned through my veins. I drained the rest of the orange juice, and made my way to the bathroom for cold water. I was hot and I was thirsty.
The heat was miserable and uncomfortable, and I had a hard time falling back asleep. Peter nagged at me to take medicine again. I did, my head was a throbbing bruise behind my eyes. Somehow, I managed to fall back asleep.
Someone tucked blankets around me the next time I woke up. I wondered how Peter managed that. “Peter?” I tried to ask. I’m sure it was just a croak of a sound.
“Don’t let David hear you calling out some other man’s name in this state, babe, I’m sure he will not understand.”
It was Mike. He rested the back of his hand against the side of my face. “You’re still burning up. I’m going to get you something else to drink. I see you got some meds. When was the last time you took that?” He fussed at me.
“When I was hot. Dunno,” I slurred.
“Then let’s hold off on taking more for a bit. I’ll be back with some juice or something.” Mike left me tucked in. I was still groggy and enclosed in my own personal fog bank of flu. Peter stayed with me, sitting guard, being vigilant.
I appreciated it more than I could express.
Mike returned with a pitcher of freshly made lemonade. It was cool and sweet, and felt good going down my dry throat. He also checked my text messages.
“Holly wrote feel better, and she told your boss you’re sick. I’ll let her know you are still on death’s doorstep.” I could imagine his thumbs dancing in a whirl of speed texting.
I managed to moan something in acknowledgment.
“David texted, nothing dirty. Doesn’t the boy flirt with you? Let’s see, there are about six messages, the last one asking if you’re dead.” Mike’s commentary went quiet for a moment. “Okay, I told him you were sick and boyfriend needs to get over here and take care of you.”
I could hear my phone text ping sound.
“Holly says she’ll let everyone know, and if you, oh no, she means me, if I put a key under the mat, she’ll come bring you some soup at lunch tomorrow. That’s sweet. Okay, texting her to let her know that’s appreciated. I like Holly, she’s sassy. We need to have her over for drinks sometime.”
My phone pinged again. Mike made a small gasp of incomprehension. He said nothing. Ping, again.
“Oh no, he didn’t. Gil, you sure this boy is the love of your life, ’cause. Hmm-mmm-mmm.” The last few hmmms, were clearly sounds of disapproval.
“What’d he say?” I mumbled.
“David said, and I quote ‘text me when you feel better, I will see you then. Don’t want to catch anything, take care.’ That is not what someone’s true love does.”
I had to agree, that’s not what I expected from him. I always nursed him and his colds by bringing him soup or a homemade meal when he felt ill. I even shoved a suppository up his ass once after dental surgery and the anesthesia made him nauseated. At the moment, I was really too sick to care. Mike took care of me, and Peter watched over me. David would have been in the way right then. Of course, my addled brain couldn’t register that it should have been David and not Mike or Peter doing either of those things.
“You don’t want anything to eat do you?” Mike asked.
The thought of food made my head spin and dragged my stomach along for a wild ride. I managed to groan negatively, my lips firmly welded shut. I was afraid if I moved or tried to make too much of a sound, things would try to escape.
“Ok, babe, you go back to sleep, I’ll come check on you later.” Mike fussed some more with my blankets before leaving and turning out the lights.
I drifted off in to a fever induced dreamscape. This time, I knew I dreamed about David, and Peter was there. Actually, he ended up being in a few of my dreams that night. I guess he was still keeping an eye out for me.
The next morning, Mike checked in on me. It felt like a smaller truck had hit me than the day before. Everything still hurt, but not as bad. I slept all morning with vague memories of Peter sitting by my feet.
Holly came over at lunch time as she said she would. She made me a bowl of ramen. It was that cheap college student staple, ramen, nothing fancy or ethnically diverse or old family recipe about it. Noodles and salty chicken broth, it tasted like ambrosia and helped me to feel better. Holly was chipper and filled me in on the office gossip, which really wasn’t much, just who was stressing ove
r what deadlines. Adam had given a few of my projects to a freelancer, so I didn’t need to worry about anything except getting better.
“I still have a job?” I whined.
“Of course, why wouldn’t you?” Holly asked.
“I fucked up those last two projects pretty good.”
Holly fussed at me, made me drink some juice.
“That was a riot. I loved uterus man. I actually pinned that one up. Of course you still have a job, that client has a stick up her ass. So what, you goofed. You were way ahead of their deadline, and the fix was a no biggie.”
“But what about the one I soaked in Coke?”
Holly smirked, “Oh, we gave those sketches to the freelancer. She’ll be fine.”
“But Adam said he wanted to talk to me, and then I didn’t show up and. . . .” I felt like crying again. Why was everything so hard to deal with when sick?
“Pish, whatever it is, it isn’t worth worrying about. You need to get better. And I need to get back to work.”
After Holly left, I texted David. I wanted him to come over and sit with me after work.
“Not while you’re still sick, I have big meetings this week. We’ll get sushi when you’re feeling better.”
“Sushi? That’s your other girlfriend.” I texted back jokingly.
He knew I didn’t like sushi. He had meetings, I guess that wasn’t as bad as I thought with him not willing to see me while I was sick and needed care. I didn’t want to be alone or burden Mike. I spend the rest of the day asleep. In my dreams, Peter lay down with me and held me. I liked the feel of him gently petting my head. I really didn’t comprehend the significance of that for some time.
Dead Sexy: Second Endings 1 Page 5
