Dead Sexy: Second Endings 1

by Lulu M. Sylvian

  I had the flu for days. Eventually, I felt better enough to leave bed and drag my carcass downstairs to watch TV. Mike was a doll and made up a bed on the couch. I watched mindless TV, and slept through most of it. Peter no longer hovered around, and David still wouldn’t come see me.

  “What are you watching? Tarzan?” Mike asked as he handed me a mug of warm broth. He sat on the far end of the couch, eyes on the vintage man-candy black and white movie.

  “Adventures of Sebastian Hale,” I answered. The broth felt good. It would have felt better had David made it.

  “Same difference.” Mike was right, Sebastian Hale, Tarzan, He-Man, all the same, great white, shirtless, savior hero archetype.

  I squinted at the TV. I needed to inject a heavy dose of this hero model into Johnny, without all the indirect racist and misogynistic crap.

  By the fifth day of no David, I was pretty angry with him. I was sick, I was his girlfriend—so I thought, but I started to wonder—and he wasn’t checking on me. That afternoon he surprised me and came over. Everything I was angry about disappeared as he took care of me. He arrived straight from the grocery store, bringing supplies like orange juice, applesauce, bread for toast, more ramen, and disinfecting wipes. He swept in and straightened up after me and my sick camp-out in front of the TV.

  I mooned up at him as he used disinfecting wipes to clean off all the surfaces, and wiped down the remotes. “Thank you. I missed you.”

  He gave me a lopsided grin. “I missed you too. I had too many meetings this week. I couldn’t afford to catch anything. There might be a promotion in it for me.”

  “I understand.” I thought I did.

  “I’ll be right back. Can you climb the stairs okay, or do you need help?”

  “I can do it, but I go slow,” I explained.

  “I’ll go get a tub started, and you head up when you’re ready.” He kissed the top of my head and disappeared upstairs.

  It took me a while, and by the time I got upstairs, the tub was full of hot water, and David had pulled all the sheets from my bed.

  “Hey babe, come on.” He led me into the bathroom and helped me out of my sweaty jammies.

  He gathered up my dirty clothes and left me to soak. By the time I was ready to get out of the tub, David had fresh pajamas for me, and my bed had clean linens.

  Slipping into my clean bed, I wondered where he had been four days earlier. This was the responsible and attentive David I loved.

  The last few days of the flu, I felt normal but weak. Returning to work, I had to field all the questions about if I had gotten my shot that year or not. I had. I also managed to get a different flu than the shot protected against. The upside of having the flu, my immune system was now supposed to be superior, and—knock on wood—I should expect to not get the flu again for a few years.

  8

  I looked at the list of work I had missed while I was out sick.

  I had missed one deadline, but the department did not, thanks to my super anal organization skills at work. Adam was able to locate the computer illustration files and transfer them to the freelancer Holly told me about.

  Never underestimate the necessity of an über organized computer filing system. Anyone snooping around on my computer can easily and immediately find all job files.

  According to the list in front of me, I had about seventy hours’ worth of work to get done in the next four days. My first step in tackling all the work was to divide it into two groups—traditional and computer. I prioritized them based on deadlines. Everything was wanted by end of day Friday. That meant I spent the next hour on the phone finding out if that really meant they needed it, in hand, by five PM Friday, or if they could wait until eight AM Monday. Fortunately for my sanity, but not my weekend, better than half were needed by Monday. I did have a few that were absolutely due Friday, they got slated to be completed first, then all the traditional mediums were scheduled, and lastly, the computer illustrations due Monday.

  I wanted to get back to writing, since that didn’t happen at all the week I was sick. It looked like that wasn’t going to happen much this week either. My characters were becoming demanding in a way I could never have anticipated. They wanted out of my head.

  I still wasn’t feeling one hundred percent, so I was going to go for a slow but steady pace to make sure all my work got completed. The first set of illustrations was going to be used for an info-graphic by a designer. I needed to crank out a set of needles and injection sites, along with a set of stylized glands. I liked what I did for a living. I got to draw. I got to draw bodies and body parts, and I show people exactly what was going on inside us humans. I created diagrams showing how different organs, and body systems functioned. I created illustrations demonstrating how cells really worked. I had a really cool job, but sometimes it was just that—a job. Unfortunately, not everything I draw fascinates me, like needles, and flat stylized icons representing glands. This set of illustrations exhausted me.

  As soon as I completed the first set of illustrations, I sent them out on the approval route. The needles and glands took more time than I cared to admit. I was tired and moving slow. The flu really had zapped my energy. I knew better than to expect to feel completely well right away, but I had not expected to be so wiped out. I hadn’t had lunch yet, and I was fading. I shuffled out of my cubicle and knocked on my boss’s door jam.

  Adam faced away from the open door, tapping away on his computer. “Yeah?” he called out, not turning around.

  “Hey, Adam,” my voice sounded groggy even to me. He swiveled around, facing me. Adam loomed whenever he stood up. He looked like a tank more suited for football than art. Yet, he could create the most delicate and refined detailed illustrations I had ever seen. Somehow, he made the transition from science fiction illustrator to science illustrator to art director. His personality was as fine as his artistic skills—he was an excellent artistic director, time manager, and human. “I’ve routed the info-graphic pieces. I’m wiped. Um.” I rubbed at my face. “Can I go home and take a nap, then come back and finish up?”

  “Sure, Gil, you sure you’ll be able to come back after your nap? You don’t want to stay home?”

  “No, I’m good, but I need a bit more than an hour to recharge. I’ll be back in like two, two and a half hours. Like, I’m taking a really long lunch.”

  “Before you go, sit. We never did have that talk.”

  I swallowed, my stomach clenched. In my misery, I had successfully forgotten that Adam had wanted to talk to me about my colossal cock ups. I started to feel sick again.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he started. “We need to bring in a regular freelancer, take some of the pressure off you.”

  I sighed. Tension melted from my shoulders. “Yeah.” I kept calm, mostly because I felt so wiped out. But inside, my little illustrator heart fist pumped and flailed its arms in an enthusiastic happy dance.

  “The illustrator we had while you were out might be a good candidate.”

  “Can she start now?” I asked. “I’m gonna need some help catching up on everything and meeting some of these deadlines.”

  “I’ll give her a call. You go rest. When you get back, pull all the files you want to pass on to her.”

  I started to tear up, I wasn’t going to lose my job—I was going to get help with it. “Thanks Adam, I can do that.”

  “If you can’t make it back after your nap, you call me.” Adam sounded concerned, as he should be. If I was unable to work, deadlines still needed to be met.

  “Absolutely,” I confirmed. “When I get back, I’ll go back over all the projects. I might need the help on one or two. I have three airbrushed pieces that need to be done in the next two days. I’d be happy to send over some of the computer pieces.”

  “Sounds good, come see me when you get back.”

  “Thanks, Adam.” I shuffled back to my cube and picked up my jacket and purse. I slowly made my way out of the office. I stopped at Holly’s desk on the way ou
t.

  “You are pale, Gillian, paler than normal,” she told me.

  “I’m going home to take a nap. I’ll be back in a few hours. Could you call me to make sure I get up and come back?” I asked.

  “Of course. Does Adam need you to come back? If you’re still not up for this, we can make arrangements.”

  “No, no, I’ll be fine. I’m just tired and moving slow. A nap, some soup, and then I’ll be able to get in a few more hours of work. I need to pace myself.”

  “Sure thing, Gil, feel better.”

  I waved as I made my way out of the office. I found my car—not up to walking or biking yet—and made my way home. Fortunately, I lived close, less than a fifteen minute drive. I didn’t even take my jacket off before I started my noodle soup. I became addicted to ramen during my illness. Ramen and apple sauce, the staples of my college and freelance days. I felt much better after eating, but I still took a nap.

  I slept hard for over an hour. My dreams were convoluted until Peter showed up. As soon as Peter walked into the dream, everything calmed down and made sense. He brought order to the chaos of my mind. The dream started off with dancing needles and flat two dimensional glands that looked like the animated playing cards from Alice in Wonderland. When Peter arrived, instead of everything swirling around me, it all became a stage show—strange musical theater, with music by Cole Porter and choreography by Bob Fossi. We sat in theater seats. He held my hand. It was warm and comfortable. His thumb traced soothing circles on the back of my knuckles.

  I woke up with my phone ringing—Holly, calling to remind me to come back to work.

  I made another bowl of noodles before I left, and grabbed a few cans of soda to take back with me. The drive back was quick, and I felt much better.

  I stared at easily eighty hours’ worth of work, and I had other projects still in the process. There was no way I was going to be able to take it all on.

  I didn’t like complaining to Adam, not without having thought a problem through. After my nap, I sat down and reviewed the impending work and the existing projects. I made an estimate sheet of hours I expected each of the new projects and the older projects to take. I had over three weeks of work on my schedule that needed to be completed in less than two full weeks. I’m good, and I work fast, but this was going to either require time travel capabilities, or extra hands. It’s not like I didn’t enjoy putting in extra hours at work. Okay, I didn’t, I wanted to spend my free time writing and not drawing the detailed inner workings of the urinary tract.

  I had two job folders in my hands when I approached Adam’s office again.

  “You look better, Gil, that nap helped,” he said.

  “It’s what I needed.” I handed him the two job folders. Since I knew Adam didn’t have access to a time machine that I was aware of, I prepared to beg for that freelancer, Jenny Spark. Fortunately, I didn’t need to beg. “Do you think we could give these to the freelancer?”

  Adam flipped open the folders, and quickly glanced at the contents of each. “Sure thing, you haven’t started anything on them have you?”

  “Not yet, do I need to provide sketches or can she handle it from start to finish?” I hadn’t worked with this freelancer yet, I had no idea what her skill level was.

  But Adam said she was available, but to do some sketches. I had time to collect the projects and do any preliminary sketches before handing anything over to her the next morning.

  She was not what I expected. Most freelancers I’ve worked with have all had a bohemian style. Something about working on their own, or maybe it was that I was more comfortable with freelancers who fit the hippy description better. Even when I freelanced, I embraced the boho style.

  Jenny Spark was not bohemian or hippy. She was more spit and polish and office appropriate than I was on the days I dressed “professionally.” She had thick flowing golden hair, perfectly coiffed like a shampoo advertisement, and an enviable curvy figure. She wore a pin striped suit with a pencil skirt and a blazer. A little scarf was tied around her neck instead of a necklace, and the clear blue of her blouse set off her perfectly made up blue eyes.

  I felt like a squished bug dressed for a day of being hunched over a computer drawing tablet. I wore stretchy yoga pants disguised as office wear and a knit top. Of course, as soon as she arrived I wished I had dressed up a bit more. I felt an immediate stab to my self-esteem. I didn’t know what it was about her. She hadn’t done or said anything to make me feel this way. My own insecurities were talking, making me feel substandard and awkward—stupid inner voices.

  I smiled sharply and said, “Hi.”

  Actually, Jenny seemed really nice. She didn’t take the job and go home, only to call me with questions. She asked if she could sit and review everything to make sure it was all clear. She looked around as I made space for her to sit down at my desk. She studied the pictures I had pinned up. One was of David and I, one of David alone, and then a picture of Peter from Trouble Trouble.

  “Is this your boyfriend?” she asked pointing to the picture of me and David.

  “Yeah, that’s David.” I half expected her to say he looked like the Doctor Who guy, most people do.

  “He looks very successful.”

  “Um, yeah. He’s doing pretty well, I guess.” It was an odd compliment.

  She continued to look at the images I had up. “Oh, he was cute wasn’t he?” She pointed to the picture I had of Peter.

  “He was.” I felt a little embarrassed having his picture up like some fan-girl. I honestly had no excuse for it other than I liked to have something to look at when he talked in my head, made me feel like I could actually see him. “I’m using him as an inspiration model for a project I’ve been toying with.” It wasn’t a complete lie. I don’t know why I felt the need to justify his picture being up. I didn’t justify the pictures of the narwhales or the note cards with inspirational quotes.

  I cleaned off a place for her, and she began reviewing the project while I got myself set up to begin the sketches I would digitize for the kidney and bladder illustrations. I dug out a few color chips for her when she was unclear on the specifications, and answered all of her questions—which weren’t many. I felt confident that she could handle the bigger work load with the timeline we were handing her.

  Jenny tucked everything into that slick black leather case of hers. “Thanks, Gillian. Can I text if I have any questions?”

  “Yeah, sure.” I jotted down my phone number on a sticky note.

  She pasted it to the front of the job folder in her bag. “We should go have lunch when this is over. We can talk medical illustration.”

  I smiled. That actually sounded really good. There weren’t too many of us who specialized, and the ones I did know where all much older. It would be good to make friends with someone my own age. Boob envy be damned. “I like that.”

  “We can go get sushi.”

  The thought of it made my stomach lurch. I’d have to talk her out of that one when the time came. I hoped my smile didn’t falter too much.

  “It’s okay, Gil, she’s pretty good,” Adam consoled me.

  He leaned on my cube opening, to check on me and what I thought of Jenny. He had no way of knowing I felt more defeated by her looks than her abilities. Unfortunately, in the past, I had lost out on jobs because of the other illustrators’ personal appearance, or gender, and not because of their better illustration skills. I know because the people who hired the other person confessed to me, as they begged me to come in and save their butts on deadlines by doing emergency fixes on illustrations gone wrong.

  I gave him a weak smile, spun in my chair, and got back to working on the bladder illustration. Hours later, when it was time most people started heading home, it was quiet in the office. I would be there for at least two more hours. I wanted to make sure everything was set up and ready for me to begin the airbrush projects in the morning. Fortunately, the sketches had been out for approval when I got sick. I needed to refine th
e outlines and start planning my masks.

  Something about that woman was familiar.

  I didn’t jump. Peter’s smooth voice eased over me, not freaking me out for once.

  Familiar, huh? Maybe it’s just you like curvy, well-dressed blonds? I teased. I was better at keeping the conversation in my head, and not accidentally talking out loud.

  Not my type, but she is somebody’s. I can’t remember.

  I shrugged. As long as she created decent illustrations, took some of the stress off my back, and wasn’t gunning for my job—an actual fear that I realized was tickling me in the gut—I wasn’t going to let her take up any of my brain. I needed all of it to focus.

  You’re feeling better. It wasn’t a question, rather an observation.

  Yeah, that nap really helped. Thanks for calming my dreams down. They wouldn’t have been very restful otherwise.

  What are you talking about? Peter sounded confused.

  You didn’t come in while I was asleep and make my dreams calm down?

  No, I’ve been leaving you alone today. I figured first day back at work and all. You’d be snappy if I was in the way.

  I don’t get snappy. I thought about that for a minute, yeah I do. I don’t mean to get snappy. I apologized.

  It’s okay, you try to stay focused, and I am a distraction. He announced his distraction status with grandeur and wide open arms.

  Huh. I had to think about that, Peter had not visited me in my dream. Yet, he’s who I picked to calm things down.

  So, you’re dreaming about me on your own? I could hear the smirk in his voice.

  Shut up. I knew I blushed.

  You’re blushing. Why did he have to point that out? It only made the blush deepen. Was it a dirty dream?

  “Shut up!” I snarled out loud. No, it was not a dirty dream, just I . . . I thought it really was you, and I was grateful for your presence in the midst of the swirling weirdness.