by Sarah Dreher
Chapter Ten
She hadn't seen Fran in days—weeks, really, if you didn't count the short conversations they had in the hall. Fran asked how she was, she said fine. She asked how Fran was, Fran said fine. Fran asked how the wedding was going. Shelby sighed and rolled her eyes. Fran laughed. Fran was working the night shift at the Health Service—penance, she was sure, for some ancient, long-forgotten transgression. Shelby was trying to learn the language of weddings, and she'd never been very good at foreign languages. They commiserated briefly. They promised themselves they'd go camping, as soon as Fran got off the weekend shift. They agreed to get together over dinner. Soon.
The trouble was, Shelby missed her. And the longer she went without seeing her, the more she missed her. So, on a Saturday afternoon, when she knew Fran wasn't working, she decided to make good on a promise she'd made to herself, and went looking for her.
She tapped on the door. Someone called faintly from inside, she thought, but she wasn't sure. Maybe Fran was in the kitchen or the bedroom. She tried the door. It wasn't locked. "Hey," she said as she opened it and looked in. "It's just me. What's up with you? Are you hiding..."
The room was dark after the hallway. The sun had already crossed to the west. The light through the east-facing windows was pale and touched with the faint green of young leaves. The air felt old.
Fran lay curled up on the couch, a blanket wrapped tightly around her. Her face was the color of ashes, her lips slate blue. Her eyes glittered. She was shivering.
It looked as if there'd been a fire in the fireplace, but it had gone out. Singed paper and half-burned twigs lay in a sprawl on the hearth. And the room was as warm as late-June could be, certainly not chilly enough to need a fire.
"What's wrong?" Shelby asked, going to her.
Fran pulled the cover tighter. "Freezing," she said.
Close up, it was clear that she was very sick. Her skin was dry and brittle. Shelby felt her forehead. "You're burning up," she said.
"No. Cold."
"Cold and burning up. This isn't good."
"Tell me," Fran said.
Shelby reached for her. "Come on. You're going to bed. Now." She took her hand and tried to help her up. Fran was as limp as a rag doll. Bending down, she slipped an arm under her shoulders and eased her to a sitting position.
"Glad you're here," Fran murmured.
"How long have you been like this?"
"Last night. I think."
“With the chills, the fever?"
Fran nodded.
She started to scold her for not calling her, but that would be cruel. Fran was obviously in pain and fragile. She boosted her up with an arm around the shoulders, and led her into the bedroom.
"Bathroom," Fran said. and veered off in that direction.
Shelby turned her attention to the room. It was a mess. Half the bureau drawers were open, spilling socks and shirts and pajamas. Fran's clothes were strewn across the floor, as if she'd stripped them off and dropped them wherever she happened to be. The bed was rumpled as a rat's nest. It wasn't like Fran. There was still a spit-and-polish military air about her apartment, with things tidy and in their places at all times. Whatever was wrong with her, it must have attacked suddenly. Which gave her a pretty good idea of what it was. Especially since almost everyone she knew, including herself, had had it last winter. They called it the Killer Flu. It wasn't a term of endearment. Shelby herself had come down with it in the middle of the A & P, suddenly feeling weak and dizzy, and had madly grabbed a cart full of frozen TV dinners. Barely making it home, she'd just had time to shove them into the freezer compartment before the truly horrible part started. Now she picked up Fran's clothes and tidied the bed and closed the bureau drawers and closet door.
The kitchen and bathroom led off from the bedroom, an oddity brought about when the owners cut up the house and installed more plumbing. From the kitchen, she could tell if Fran left the bathroom. She went through the cupboards to see if there was anything which might be helpful in the current emergency.
There wasn't. Not much of anything at all, helpful or frivolous. Fran must have been about to shop when the bug struck her. Shelby decided she could probably put together what she needed from her own apartment, at least for now.
Fran came out of the bathroom and stumbled to the bed. Shelby helped her in and pulled the covers up around her. Fran's teeth were chattering. Shelby found a quilt on the closet shelf and spread it over her.
"Sorry," Fran said.
"I don't want to hear that. I wish you'd called me."
"Didn't want to bother you." She was having trouble breathing.
"That's idiocy." She went to the bathroom and checked out the medicine cabinet. It was no more useful than the kitchen. "Honestly," she said, "for someone in the medical business, you have the world's most poorly equipped medicine cabinet."
"Shoot me," Fran muttered. "I can cure a bullet wound,"
"I'm going over to my place for supplies. Hang in there."
By the time she got back, Fran was sitting up, and coughing. Shelby recognized that cough only too well. It was a choking, bone-cracking, muscle-tearing, throat-ripping cough. Lying down made it worse, and after a few rounds of it you were too weak to sit up. "I'll be there in a minute," she said. She filled the tea kettle and set it on to boil and poured a glass of water.
She sat on the edge of the bed. "Rough, isn't it?"
Fran nodded. She started to say something, and another convulsion of coughing took her over. It sounded like brittle wood exploding. Her face turned red, then back to white, and red again. Tears came to her eyes. She tried to get control, but the harder she tried the more the struggle made her choke. Shelby remembered it, remembered choking until she couldn't breathe, remembered the knife-stabs of pain in her lungs. Remembered being alone, and terrified. She put her arms around Fran and pressed her head against her shoulder. "Lean on me," she said. "Try to let yourself relax.”
Slowly, Fran stopped fighting. The cough subsided until finally she was able to take a few deep breaths. "Thanks," she said, and started to pull away.
Shelby held onto her. "Stay like this. Rest a minute. It'll help. Lying down makes it worse." She liked the feel of Fran's head on her shoulder, Fran's back under her hands. It made her feel, strong and protective and...
...she searched for the word, but when it carne to her she didn't understand it...
...whole.
She stayed very still and listened as their breathing synchronized until their separate breaths became one breath.
"Don't catch this," Fran murmured.
"I've already had it, in February. I'm immune."
Shelby stroked Fran's back soothingly. "Don't talk," she said. Fran was still shivering. Her bathrobe lay across the bottom of the bed. Shelby reached back and grabbed it and draped it over her shoulders. "I can tell you from experience," she said, "this will pass. It's miserable while it's happening, and it won't necessarily make you a better person, but it really will pass."
Fran coughed a little in a huffing way and tensed against the next onslaught.
"Easy," Shelby said. "Let it flow through you." She loosened her hold a little, to give her more breathing space. "And don't be afraid. I know what to do. You'll feel like this for a couple of days..."
"Won't make it."
Shelby smiled. "You'll make it. Are they driving hot spikes into your head and joints yet?"
Fran nodded.
"Eyes hurt?"
She nodded again.
"Dizzy?"
"Yeah."
"What about throwing up?"
"No, thanks."
"Did you throw up?"
Fran nodded. She relaxed a little. Apparently, this coughing fit had passed her by and gone in search of bigger game.
"Did you throw up a lot?"
"None of your business," Fran said.
"You medical types," Shelby said. "You expect us to tell all, but when it comes to yourselves..."
&nb
sp; "I hate you."
“You're not in a position to hate me. Besides, I took orders from you on our camping trip. It's your turn to take orders from me."
"I have a merit badge in camping."
"Well," Shelby said, "I have one in misery."
"Yes, I threw up a lot. I didn't have a good time. Does it make you happy knowing that?"
"Ah, pissiness," she said, "you're still among the living."
"If I'm not, I sure didn't go to Heaven." She was silent for a moment, then she said softly, “Thank you."
"Don't thank me. You're going to be sick of the sight of me. I'm going to force you to do things you don't want to do, and eat things you don't want to eat, and generally make a nuisance of myself."
Weakly, Fran raised one arm and touched Shelby's back in gratitude. Her hand fell back to the bed.
"You're going to be exhausted, once you get through the worst of this," Shelby recalled. "Your mind'll be fine, but your body will feel as if you're dragging lead weights. You have to be really careful not to overdo it. I forced myself to go out one evening, and relapsed for another two weeks. If you can stand it, just recline on the couch and watch soap operas on television."
"I don't have television," Fran said.
"My television. You'll need a change of scenery."
The water was beginning to hiss. "Time to lie down," Shelby said. "You're on your own for a minute." She arranged the pillows to support her and eased Fran back onto them and placed the thermometer in her mouth. Fran closed her eyes.
"OK," Shelby said, brushing Fran's hair away from her face. "I'm going to make you something to drink. You probably won't like it." She pulled the covers up around her.
She opened the box of lemon Jello and dropped it into a bowl, added a cup of boiling water, then enough cold water to make it drinkable. Pouring some into a mug, she noticed her hands were shaking. It was a scary thing, this flu. Almost as bad for the people around as the people who had it. It made them feel helpless, and sometimes annoyed because of that helpless feeling. She was glad she'd had it because she'd know what to do and what not to do, because she could do what needed to be done, because her knowing would make it easier for Fran.
Not that there was any such thing as "easy" with this monster, she thought as she handed the mug to Fran and took the thermometer. It registered high. Not life-threatening, exactly, but worth worrying about.
"A little over 103," she said. "If it doesn't go any higher, we're all right."
“Maybe you are," Fran muttered.
“If it does, we might have to make some decisions."
"Put me in the garbage."
Shelby smiled. "What I had in mind was calling a doctor."
Fran looked down at her drink. "What is this?"
"Jello."
"You're out of your mind."
"It's protein, glucose, and water," Shelby said. "All of which you need. Drink it." She could tell Fran was weak and only wanted to sleep, but she was dehydrating. The fever locked inside her had to be brought to the surface and released, and that wasn't going to happen unless she could get fluids into her. She took the mug and sat beside her and held it to her lips, steadying her with her free arm. "Come on, Fran. It really isn't bad. Don't make me fight you every step of the way."
She drank. "Tastes like hot Lemonette."
"A lot like it, I guess. When you finish this, I'll let you sleep."
"Promises, promises."
She had finished the drink. Shelby took the mug away. She should probably get her to drink another, but she didn't have the heart to force it on her now. In a while, when she'd rested. She probably only had a few minutes before the congestion in her chest built up again, anyway. Shelby helped her lie down. She was almost asleep before Shelby had even finished straightening her covers.
"Shelby," Fran said as she was leaving the room.
"I'm right here."
"I hate this."
Shelby turned and went to her and rested her hand against the side of Fran's face. "Go to sleep."
The cough exploded like rifle shot. Shelby put down her book and ran to the bedroom. This one was worse than the last. Much worse. Fran's whole body was wracked with it. Her face was nearly purple.
I should have gotten a doctor, Shelby thought. I shouldn't have let it go this far.
Fran struggled for breath, struggled not to gag. Shelby sat next to her. "Remember, don't tense up," she said, and hoped she said it in a calm and matter-of-fact way that hid her panic. "It'll be all right."
But it was several helpless minutes before Fran got the spasm under control. Tears ran down her face. Shelby took a tissue from the box beside the bed and wiped them away. "Do you want to see a doctor?"
"Am I dying?"
"Of course not. I just thought you might feel more—well, secure."
"You think I don't trust you?"
"It would be OK if you didn't. I wouldn't take it personally."
"Well, I do." She took a deep breath and grimaced. "Jesus, that hurts."
"I know it does. I'll try to make you more comfortable."
Fran fell back against her pillows. "You must be God."
"If you'll drink the rest of the Jello... assuming it hasn't set..."
"Say it," Fran said, her words slurring from exhaustion. "You mean congealed. It's disgusting." She took another deep breath and groaned.
"If you'll drink it, I'll give you some aspirin. I didn't want to do it until I was sure you could keep it down."
"I'm so lucky."
"If you don't stop this," Shelby said firmly, "I'm going to walk out of here and leave you to your own devices."
Fran didn't answer.
"I lied," Shelby said. "I wouldn't do that."
"You could."
"I won’t."
The Jello hadn't congealed, but it was a little thick. All right, slimy. Shelby heated the water and added some to the glass. "If this works out," she said as she helped Fran drink, "we'll move up to ginger ale and bouillon. Then maybe toast or macaroni. The important thing is to keep you from dehydrating, and at the same time not to stress your system."
Fran moved her shoulders and winced. "I'm already stressed. I think I was run over by a fire truck.”
"We can take care of that, too. One thing at a time."
"I'm really sorry about this."
"Don't be on my account." She opened the aspirin and poured out two. "Take these. If you can tolerate it, you can have another.”
Fran swallowed the aspirin with the last of the Jello. She handed the glass to Shelby. "I'm glad that's over."
"Well, maybe it is, and maybe it isn't. Are you ready to go back to sleep?"
Fran nodded.
"OK, squinch down." She made the pillows a little lower. "I'm going to rub some stuff on your chest. It'll help you breathe." She opened the top button on Fran's pajamas and gently pushed the cloth aside. "This should feel good." She unscrewed the top to the Vicks Vaporub jar and scooped up two fingers full. "Smells kind of funny," she said as she spread the ointment on Fran's chest, "but it beats the old mustard plasters. Did you ever have one of them?"
"Yes." She closed her eyes.
"I used to have really sensitive skin when I was a kid." She smoothed the ointment out with the flat of her hand, working it in. "But I couldn't make anyone believe those things really burned me. My mother said I was just being a baby. Well, one time… I think it was during the whooping cough... she left one on me too long and I got blisters." Shelby laughed. "She was so upset and guilt-ridden I thought she'd spend the rest of her life going to Mass and doing penance. Except we weren't Catholic. Are you Catholic?”
Fran shook her head.
"My mother," Shelby said as she slowly massaged the muscles of Fran's chest, warming them, "was born into a Catholic family, but she left the church as soon as she could. She thinks being Catholic would interfere with her social-climbing career."
Fran's breathing deepened. Good, she was drifting off. "My mother'
s family was French-Canadian," Shelby said, lowering her voice to a rhythmic drone. "I never understood why she was ashamed of that. They were honest working people, and way back there are even some ancestors who went out to the West, trapping. Some of them married Indians. They all expected to get rich, of course, but nobody did, also of course. But they had a good time. I met the son of one of them once, when I was just a kid. He told great stories about those times, things he'd seen and things he'd heard from his father and uncles. He'd even met Calamity Jane once. My mother claimed he was a dreamer and a liar just like all the rest of them. But that didn't matter to me. As long as a story's good, who cares if it's true?"
Fran took a deep breath and let it out carefully. The tension lines melted from her face. Shelby went on rubbing her silently.
It was only late afternoon, the sun angling sharply across the lawn from the front of the house. The air drifting through the window was fresh and clean. A car drove past slowly. Sparrows twittered lazily in the warmth of early summer. It felt good to be doing this, taking care of her friend. Good, and right, and more important than anything she could think of.
She let her touch grow slower. Fran seemed to be almost asleep, but little frown marks wrinkled her forehead. Shelby smoothed them. "What's this for?"
Fran half-opened her eyes, but glanced away.
"Come on," Shelby said.
"I'm... kind of scared. Could you stay with me tonight?"
"I already have my sleeping bag and stuff here. I can sleep on your spare bed, or on the couch in the living room if you want privacy."
"Spare. You don't have to use the sleeping bag."
"It's my sleeping bag," Shelby said, "and I'll use it if I want to."
Fran smiled. "Nut." Her eyes drifted shut.
"As soon as you're asleep, I have to go over to my place for a minute and make a phone call," Shelby said. "I'll leave our doors open so I can hear you if you need me."
Fran didn't answer.
Shelby sat by her for a while, then got up carefully and slipped out of the apartment. She called Jean. "Listen, I'm not coming in to work Monday."
