by Girard, Dara
Adriana nodded in approval. "You don't seem to need any help."
Nina tried to lift the pot. "I could use help taking it out of the sink."
She obliged.
As Nina watered the plants, leaving tiny puddles in her wake, Adriana looked around. Except for the plants, the place held no other luxuries—paintings were absent, there were a few account manuals and a TV set, but nothing to give the place a feeling of home. In his bedroom, the bed was stark with tight brown sheets pulled military style, his refrigerator was filled with leftovers from Drake's restaurant. The only thing he had in abundance was sugar, pineapple soda, and vanilla sandwiches.
Something about the place bothered her. He seemed to give all the luxuries to the plants—dressing them in handsome terra-cotta pots and porcelain vases but gave nothing to himself. He didn't splurge on clothing, shoes, music, or videos. Not even a subscription to a business magazine.
She packed a few items. She found his drawer to be extremely tidy—socks properly rolled and sorted by type and color, shirts pressed and organized by sleeve length and style. She went to his desk and grabbed some papers he was working on, then zipped up the bag. As she slung it over her shoulder, the front door opened.
Chapter 10
"You don't need to worry, Gerta, I'm sure he's fine," a male voice said with tired patience and laden with a Norwegian accent.
A woman's voice replied, "When I see, I will know."
An older couple dressed in heavy gray coats, long scarves, and wool hats entered the room. For one panicked instant Adriana feared she had entered the wrong apartment. The couple turned and stared. Shrewd green eyes studied her. They looked vaguely familiar.
"Who are you?" the woman asked.
"I'm Adriana Travers. I'm sorry, I thought this was Eric's place."
The woman came forward, seeming to shrink as she came closer. "It is. Is he not here? Why are you here?"
Adriana blinked, looking down at the woman, wondering why she had to submit to such an inquisition if this was the right place. "No, he's not here," she said in the same brusque manner. "He's at my place. He's sick."
The woman turned to her husband, self-satisfied. "Did I not tell you that something was wrong?" She turned back to Adriana. "What is your address?"
"Why?"
"Because we plan to visit him."
"She has been worried," the man said.
"Who are you?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Larsen. We have known Eric since he was a boy."
Adriana smiled at the thought of Eric ever being a boy.
"Has he not told you about us?" Mrs. Larsen asked, hurt.
"He's a private man," Mr. Larsen said. "He won't tell everyone things."
Adriana clutched the bag and nodded. "Yes, we've only become friends recently."
Mr. Larsen looked behind her. "And who is this?"
Nina came forward. "Hi."
"My daughter, Nina," Adriana said.
They both nodded. "Nice to meet you."
Mrs. Larsen narrowed her eyes at Adriana. "I am sure I have seen you somewhere before."
"Perhaps since you know Eric you probably know Drake—"
"The wedding, of course! And the babies' baptism." She clapped her hands in delight. "Such joy, such joy! Are we to hear wedding bells again?"
"Oh no," Adriana stammered, feeling flushed under the intense stare. "Uh, we're just friends. Why don't I take you to my place to see Eric? He's very grumpy."
"He is always grumpy when he is sick. Poor boy has always been sickly."
"Really?"
"He stayed with us many times because Drake could not watch him," Mr. Larsen said.
His wife added, "I did not like where they lived. I would have let them stay with us but our place was so small. So we watched Eric when he was ill, usually in winter like now, and he would read whatever we gave him and watch the kids playing outside, knowing he could not join."
Adriana's heart constricted, imagining a sickly little boy who developed his mind because he couldn't develop his body. She imagined the shame he must have felt having his brother, who was already overworked, hovering over him when certainly he wanted to help too. No wonder he had such a hard time accepting her assistance. He would have to learn.
* * *
Again he woke to silence. Eric sighed, relieved. They were gone. Freedom. He reached for his trousers. They weren't there. His shoes, socks, and shirt were missing as well. He swore. Adriana hadn't trusted him. Evidently with reason. He drummed his fingers on the bed. That wouldn't stop him from looking. He searched the place—her closet, the hall, the bathroom, in her office—his clothes were gone. He was trapped.
He rested against the wall, defeated. He would make the best of it. However, that did not include staying in bed. And he wasn't going to walk around half naked either. He grabbed her robe. It barely reached his knees and wouldn't completely close, but it was better than nothing.
He went into the living room and flipped through the channels, then turned it off. He had to do something. He turned to the kitchen and had an idea.
* * *
The smell of frying fish greeted Adriana as she opened the door. The heavenly scent pleased her until she saw Eric hunched over the stove, his eyes half closed and his face flushed. She stormed up to him, halting at the image he created: a large black man wearing a red silk robe with flared sleeves.
She leaned against the counter as if she were in a bar. "Hey there, sexy."
He spun around, his eyes accusing. "You took my clothes."
Nina came into the room. She spotted Eric and began to smile.
Adriana glanced at her. "Go into the living room until I call you."
Her smile grew, she left the room giggling.
Eric scowled. "See what you've done?"
"Serves you right. What are you doing up?" It was a rhetorical question. She did not give him a chance to reply. "I told you to rest, Cassie told you to rest, Drake told you to rest. Are you too stubborn to listen to anyone?"
"You don't have to shout."
She took the spatula from him. "Your fever has gone up again."
"It's the kitchen heat."
She glared at him and motioned to the table.
He carefully sat. "I was only trying to start dinner."
"I could have bought something."
"That's not in the budget."
"I haven't had a chance to splurge because of you. Trust me, I have money."
She saw him clench his fist.
"I've missed days of work, had to reschedule a meeting with my leasing agent. I can't take time for a facial or walk by any stores for window shopping. I'm stuck in this place all because of you."
His jaw twitched.
"I've had to pay for the cost of your medicine, you've sweated through two of my favorite sheets, and I've had to make sure the temperature isn't too hot even though we're freezing. My nails are chipping and my hair is a mess because I spend all my time worrying about you. And you can't even stay in bed!" She tossed the spatula in the sink. "I've broken up with guys who've given me less hassle than you. And I'm sorry that I'm the type that strikes you as altruistic, but let me assure you that I'm not." She rested her hands on the table and leaned toward him. "I don't do anything I don't want to. If I didn't want you here, once Winston had gone, I would have taken your fevered behind home. And the way you've been behaving I'm wondering if that's a good idea."
His eyes clung to hers.
"But I won't and you know why."
He lowered his eyes.
She looked up and saw Mr. and Mrs. Larsen staring. She had forgotten about them. "You have visitors."
His eyes flew up. "Cassie and Drake?"
"No, Eric," Mrs. Larsen said, entering the kitchen. "Sit, sit."
"She was worried about you," Mr. Larsen said.
He stood. "I'm fine."
"You call this fine?" She tugged on the robe. "Come. Let's go to bed." She took his arm and left the kitchen.
> Adriana laughed. "That doesn't bother you?" she asked, referring to the double meaning.
Mr. Larsen only smiled and followed.
Nina came into the kitchen still giggling. "Uncle Eric looked really funny."
"Yes." Adriana tapped her chin. "But he's given me an idea."
* * *
Mrs. Larsen helped Eric into bed. "Quite a woman you have here."
"You shouldn't have come." He rested against the headboard.
They both ignored this. They told him about their son, Sveen, and his wife. Mrs. Larsen talked of her garden group, Mr. Larsen of his recent chess game. Eric was soothed by the smell of caraway, reminding him of their home and the stews she would make. He remembered how good it felt to climb into their guest bed—a cot, which to him was like a chaise—with all the covers to himself. Not having to share with his brother and sister. Having a warm meal served on dishes free of any stains or cracks. Having a mother's gentle hand on his forehead and the rough fussing that followed.
But he was a grown man now, not a boy free to selfishly indulge the kindness of others. As an adult it haunted him how hard his brother had struggled. How his constant illnesses had been a burden even though Drake never said so. He remembered Drake staring at him with resignation in his eyes, wondering how he could afford the cough medicine. He had forced him to make a difficult choice: dinner or cough medicine?
Drake usually went without dinner. Eric would watch him sit by the window and smoke until the hunger pangs went away, giving what little food they had to Jackie and him. He'd developed the nicotine habit for them, a habit that might ultimately cost him his life. If only he'd been stronger, more—
"Relax," Mrs. Larsen said gently.
He looked at her. "Take me home."
"You are home."
He looked at Mr. Larsen, who was studying a lamp. "She worries too much."
"You have a fine woman here," he said.
"She's not mine."
"Quiet. Just sleep," Mrs. Larsen said then she hummed and soon his tired eyes closed.
Adriana did not ask the Larsens to stay to dinner; it was understood. They ate and chatted in the dining room, Adriana feeling Mrs. Larsen's shrewd gaze on her.
She didn't eat much. She felt bad eating a meal Eric couldn't enjoy, and having spoken so harshly to him. She wondered if his fever would go down and what damage his activity had done to his recovery.
Mrs. Larsen suddenly laughed. "He is right. You do worry too much. I can see it in your eyes."
Adriana lowered her gaze, ashamed. "I'm sorry."
Mrs. Larsen shrugged and turned to her husband. They shared a secret glance. Later they begged off dessert, checked Eric once more, then left.
* * *
Winston came over the next day to see Eric's progress.
"You haven't been resting," he said, putting his stethoscope away. There was no judgment in his tone. His words were stated as fact. "Your pneumonia is as stubborn as you are."
"My fever's gone."
"Barely and your voice still sounds as if your cords have been savaged." He sat back. "So, Henson, don't look surprised. I remember you." He grinned. "How did you find yourself in the clutches of Adriana? She usually chooses people she can help. Started when she brought home that little fat friend of hers."
"I'm sure Drake would like to hear your description of his wife," Eric said, sarcastic.
"Drake's not here and I love Cassie like a sister. As does Adriana. You're an odd choice for her, however. She likes people she can help or fix."
"I'm here," he said, referring to his sickness.
"True, but I wonder if it's something else. Have you made a bad business deal? Suffered a broken heart?"
Eric looked at him, his face impassive.
Winston shrugged. "Just a warning. I'm sure you don't want to be another project of hers. Now I want you to rest. Find the word in the dictionary if it is foreign to you. It's a verb, something you do." He gathered his bag.
Eric kicked the blankets away once Winston left. He didn't want to be a project. He didn't want to be fixed. He stood up too quickly and fell back on the bed when the room began to spin. Why did he have to be so weak, so pathetic? How could he ever make this up to her?
He scratched his cheek, feeling the roughness of his beard. He needed to shave. He probably looked like a wino. He lay back on the bed and stared up at the canopy. He felt like a hermit in the bed of a princess. A princess who pitied him. For once the word made his gut clench. He didn't want to be pitied. He wanted her to desire him as she would any other man. But that wasn't how their affair had started. She had felt sorry for him. He squeezed his eyes shut, knowing his illness had only made it worse.
He woke to the sweet smell of coconut hair oil. He opened his eyes and saw Nina standing beside the bed. He could tell by the shadows on the floor that it was the afternoon.
"Mom wanted me to look in on you. I'm sorry you're sick," she said. "Do you want anything to eat or drink?"
He shook his head.
"Do you want me to read to you?"
"That'd be nice," he said in a raw whisper.
She climbed onto the bed and read A Little Princess, her soft voice soothing his restless mind.
* * *
Adriana went into the bedroom and undid the sheets, which had become twisted around his waist. He was a violent sleeper when he was ill. Even now his brow was furrowed and his whole body was tense. One of his pillows lay on the floor. She picked it up and placed it under his head and then stroked his back. Soon the muscles relaxed and he sighed like a contented child. She knelt next to him.
She wasn't sure what she felt for him then. It wasn't anger, it wasn't pity, it wasn't exasperation. She just wanted him well and had no desire to leave him until he was. His illness forced her to be still—it was a scary prospect. She was used to buzzing about, not staying still so that her mind could come up with thoughts or reflections.
For years she had rebelled against staying put. Afraid of the ideas that would sink into her mind: She wasn't always happy with herself or the men that she chose. At times she wanted to stay home rather than go out. That was too much like her childhood, forced solitude when other kids were allowed to play. She was free now and could play all she wanted. Yet the prospect no longer appealed to her as much. Hinton had called to tell her the group was going to a club and she refused them without regret. Keith had invited her to lunch. She told him another time. She didn't feel the need to escape as she once had.
Eric opened his eyes. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her, wondered why he still seemed so far away.
Her voice was barely a whisper. "Hi."
"Hi."
"Do you need anything?"
He shook his head.
"Asking is hard, isn't it?"
He blinked.
She lay next to him suddenly exhausted. "Well, giving isn't any easier."
* * *
Darkness filled the room when she opened her eyes. She sat up when she realized Eric wasn't in bed. She heard splashing in the bathroom and relaxed. She found him in the tub.
She looked at him, pleased that his color was back and his eyes were clear. "You're looking much better. Nice to see you relaxing. Why didn't you ask me to join you?"
"Because—"
She stripped out of her clothes. "I know it's the middle of the night, but this looks like fun."
He held out his hand to stop her. "No, wait!"
The warning came too late. She stepped in and shrieked. She jumped back out. "It's freezing!"
"I know."
She quickly dressed. "I thought men took those to... you know."
"That's a cold shower."
She felt his forehead. "Do you have a fever again?"
"No. I like it. Your body gets used to the cold eventually." He glanced at a candle. "It's invigorating."
She sat on the rim of the tub. "I'll never understand you. I can't believe you wear your glasses in the tub." She pull
ed them off. "There, that's better."
"No, it's not. I can't see you."
She shrugged. "One must suffer for vanity."
"Where are my clothes?"
She stood. "You'll have them in the morning."
"Adriana?" he called as she opened the door.
She turned to him. "Yes?"
He gripped the rim of the tub. Don't pity me. "I'll make this up to you."
"You don't have to."
"But I will." He said the words so softly she didn't hear.
* * *
Thank God he felt like a human again, Eric thought. He sat in the dining room amid papers and office paraphernalia. Unfortunately, he was a human with deadlines. He had completed his article for Investment, a monthly newsletter. It had taken him days to complete it, his foggy brain having rebelled against thinking. But now it was finished and he only had to type it.
"Lunchtime," Nina said, carrying a bowl of chicken noodle soup. It slopped precariously from side to side.
He pushed himself from the table. "Let me help you."
"No, I've got it." She set the bowl down. The soup finally made its escape, landing on his article, blurring his handwriting into illegible blobs.
He swore fiercely. He quickly glanced up, remembering her presence. Stark dismay covered her little features and something even more threatening.
He pointed his pen at her. "Don't cry."
She pulled in her lips and nodded solemnly, her chocolate eyes melting into tears.
He sighed, resigned. His request was ridiculous. "Come here."
Her chin trembled. She shook her head and took a step back, poised for flight.
He picked her up, his voice gentle. "I'm sorry. Go ahead and cry."
She did. Deep heaving sobs that shook her entire body.
"Seems you're more like your mother than we'd both like to admit." He made light of it, but something about her crying worried him. It wasn't a simple childish sadness, there was deep sorrow, deep pain. She clung to him tight as if he would leave her.
He patted her on the back. "I'm not mad at you. You mustn't cry like that. Save your tears."
Adriana came into the room and quickly assessed the situation. She sent him a silent question.
