by Lexie Ray
“I guess,” I said doubtfully.
The kitchen was separated from the rest of the open space with a long, L-shaped bar made from the same rocks as the fireplace and hearth. Every fixture and appliance was modern stainless steel, buffed into an almost burnished finish. Nothing gleamed, but everything glowed. It was very fine, but inviting at the same time.
“It’s not too ostentatious, is it?” Nate asked, wringing his hands.
“Osten-what?”
“Ostentatious,” he repeated patiently, “showy. Do you think I’m pretentious?”
I shook my head at all the unfamiliar words. “I think it’s all beautiful.”
“That’s all I wanted to hear,” he said, smiling. “Want to see your room?”
I nodded, suddenly excited.
“Actually, it’s my room,” Nate admitted. “But I’m moving into the office. I really need to focus on my writing and I don’t sleep that often. This is the office.”
He cracked a door open and I realized that the last place I’d seen so many books was my high school library. Shelves upon shelves of books towered to the ceiling. There were so many volumes that the shelves weren’t enough. Several stacks teetered on the floor. I spotted a desk in front of the window, but books covered its surface.
“How are you going to work in here with all of these?” I asked. “You can’t even sit down.”
Nate looked sheepish. “Maybe you can help me organize a bit,” he said. “I told you I was a slob.”
“Hopeless,” I teased, shaking my head. “We’re better off making you a chair and desk with all these books. I don’t know how you can live with yourself.”
“It’s touch and go,” he joked back. “Some days are worse than others.”
I turned serious. “I don’t like the idea of you giving up your room for me,” I said. “We’ve only just met. A couch would be more than fine. A space on your floor would be generous.”
“Absolutely not,” Nate said. “It’s you who’s doing me the favor, remember? All these hopeless books need cataloging, those appliances in the kitchen don’t stock or clean themselves, and I sleep more often on the futon in here than I do in my bedroom.”
With a start, I noticed the leather futon for the first time. Stacks of books had tumbled over its surface.
“You have to get awfully friendly with those books to sleep there,” I said uncertainly.
“I get downright intimate with those books,” he confided, leaning close.
I laughed and blushed, putting my hands on his chest and pushing him away.
“Fine, then,” I said. “Please show me to my room, Mr. King.”
It was just down the hallway, past a large bathroom.
“Unfortunately, we will be forced to share this bathroom,” he said. It was as big as any bedroom I’d ever seen, that beautiful rock from the kitchen and fireplace repeated on the floors and countertops. It was simply magnificent.
“Unfortunately?” I repeated. “I just have one toilet to clean. That’s pretty lucky, if you ask me.”
“And my hair styling is down to a new record time ever since I buzzed my hair,” Nate said. “You’re good at this glass-half-full stuff. A lot better than the no-hope Jasmine I first met.”
I flushed in shame. Had that whole episode at the shore really been mere hours ago?
“I’m sorry you had to see me like that,” I said. “I was really at rock bottom and, well, you pretty much saved my life. I could organize that library and clean this place for the rest of your life and never be able to repay you.”
“I’m just glad that you didn’t end up literally at the rock bottom of that cliff while you were at your rock bottom,” Nate said. “And don’t worry about anyone owing anyone anything. If you don’t want to, we never have to talk about what happened on that cliff ever again.”
I nodded. That sounded good to me.
“And here’s your room,” he said, opening another door.
I gasped involuntarily. The same floor-to-ceiling windows were present, but the curtains concealing their view were a faintly gold metallic material—a little thicker than the ones in the other room. The bedspread matched the curtains, bringing a light elegance to the room. The bed itself was low to the ground, almost Eastern in its design. There was no headboard or footboard; rather, a welded metal piece of artwork hung on the wall, giving the illusion of a headboard. In here, the wood floor had been covered by a thick carpet. I could imagine stepping out of bed on a cold morning and having the thick fibers caress my feet, warming them against the chill.
“Will this suffice?” Nate asked, looking a little anxious.
“Suffice? This will more than suffice. This is incredible.”
Forgetting myself, I threw my arms around his neck. I didn’t know how else to thank him.
“You’re more than welcome,” Nate said.
I released his neck and fell into a fit of coughing. The adrenaline that had surged through my body after the cliff and meeting Nate, then coming back to the city, had long since deserted me. I was physically and emotionally spent.
“You look like you need to lie down,” he observed.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked weakly. “I’m sick. I really do have HIV. The person you’re entrusting with your housework, your cooking, and sharing your living space with feels like she’s going to faint on her feet.”
“Then that person better lie down,” Nate said calmly. He took me by the hand and led me to the bed, turning the covers down and helping me ease down into it. The mattress immediately formed itself around my body. I had never been so comfortable in a bed. It was probably the nicest one I’d ever laid in.
“You know, I think I will lie down,” I joked lightly. My aching muscles felt instantly better even though a pervasive dull throb continued throughout my entire body.
“Don’t get up until you feel better,” he said, looking down at me. “Tomorrow I’ll take you to the doctor. The key thing about HIV is that you need to start a regimen of medication. Everything will be fine.”
After Jeff and Brenda’s completely negative reaction to my HIV positive diagnosis, hearing someone tell me that everything was going to be fine made me feel a little dubious. I was willing to try to believe it, though.
* * * *-
I was so scared to be happy in those first few days. There had been so many other times when I had dared to be happy—when Mama first took me in and got me off the streets, when Jeff and Brenda had embraced me as family. But every time I got too comfortable or thought that my life was finally getting turned around, something terrible happened. My feelings were betrayed, I was used and thrust back out onto the street, I was discarded like trash. To say I was tentative in those first few weeks would be an understatement.
“You walk around on your tippy toes like something’s going to break,” Nate observed one day. He was lounging on the couch, a book splayed across his chest. He hadn’t picked it up in about fifteen minutes and was partially covered by a throw blanket.
I’d been carrying a basket of laundry into the bedroom to fold and put away. Nate had sent me with his credit card to pick up whatever I needed in the way of clothing and toiletries. When I’d come back with a couple shirts, a value pack of panties, and a pair of jeans, he’d taken me out himself. Nate turned out to have impeccable fashion sense. He had a specific aesthetic and it fit my own style perfectly. I now boasted two whole drawers in his dresser and half a rack in the walk-in closet.
“I don’t want to bother you while you’re working,” I said, propping the laundry basket on my hip.
“Does it look like I’m working?” Nate asked, raising a dark eyebrow and putting his arms behind his head.
I shrugged. “You could be concocting the next scenes in your mind at this very moment,” I offered.
Nate rubbed his face. “Wrong,” he said, his voice muffled. “I’m sitting here, inactive, not thinking about scenes in my book, not even reading the work of other wri
ters to get inspired for scenes in my book.”
“Writer’s block?” I asked, naming his most-hated nemesis.
“Writer’s block,” he confirmed, “and a hell of a headache.”
“Your office is too dim,” I said automatically. “You need to open the curtains and get a desk lamp, at least. We’ll need to move all those books stacked against the window for better light.”
Nate smiled at me, but its tightness told me that he was in pain. “You have all the solutions.”
“And here’s one more,” I said saucily. “Let me get you some aspirin for that headache. I hate to see a man suffer needlessly.”
“Don’t bother,” he said. “I’ve already taken something.”
“Let me put this laundry away and I’ll fix some lunch,” I said over my shoulder. “You’re probably just hungry.”
But once I’d gotten all the clothes put away, exhaustion overtook me. I eased down on the bed, closing my eyes, and tried to ride it out.
It came in waves, which was normal, the doctor had told me. Nate had taken me to his personal physician. Everyone there knew Nate’s name, which I chalked up to good service. I didn’t have health insurance—one thing Jeff and Brenda had overlooked when they were trying to get my life up to speed, I mused. Nate covered the exorbitant cost of some of the drugs I needed while his doctor gave me samples of the others. I had to get a medication organizer just to keep track of it all.
“Rest when you feel like you need to,” the doctor said. “Take your medication on time. Call if you have any questions. Come back in a few months.”
I was fully prepared to adhere to all of these instructions. I must have drifted to sleep. A cool hand on my forehead woke me up.
“You have a fever,” Nate said softly. He brushed my bangs away from my face. The touch was comforting and I leaned into it without thinking.
“What a pair we are,” I said tiredly. “You with your headache, me with my HIV.”
Nate laughed and ruffled my hair. “You know, I have a better plan for lunch,” he said. “What do you like to order when you have Chinese?”
I frowned. “I’ve never had Chinese.”
Nate fell into a mock swoon, flopping on the bed and making me bounce in spite of the shock-absorbent mattress. I giggled.
“Never had Chinese!” he exclaimed, propping himself up on one elbow and looking at me. His face looked genuinely shocked but the warmth in his gray eyes told me he was teasing. “You’ve told me a lot of surprising things about your life, Jasmine, but this really takes the cake. Prostitute? Fine. HIV positive? Okay. Never had Chinese food? Unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable. If you do not allow me to order you sesame chicken, fried rice, and egg rolls immediately, you just can’t live here anymore.”
I was howling with laughter after his staged tantrum, shoving him off his side and onto his back. Nate was like a balm on my past. He could tease or cajole me about it and make me smile. How was that possible?
“Order away, then,” I said, feeling inexplicably better than before. Maybe it was the power nap I’d taken, but I was pretty sure it was the man I was living with.
* * * *
A day in my life: woke up at 5:00 a.m. Nate liked to work in the mornings. It was one of his most productive times, he said, probably since he just had a full night’s sleep. Made coffee, added a dash of milk, took it to him in the office without saying much. Didn’t want to distract him from the muses.
Had my own cup of coffee, bite of breakfast, took meds at 6:00 a.m. Showered and dressed. Picked up newspaper debris, books, shoes, etc. Swept and dusted. Wiped down countertops in kitchen. Cleaned bathroom. Cleaned bedroom. If it was Monday, I took inventory in the refrigerator and cabinets, went to market to restock. Tuesday, laundry. Wednesday, washed windows. Thursday, vacuumed rugs. Friday, dusted ceilings and walls with extendable duster. Laid down if pervasive exhaustion took hold. Begged off chores if feverish.
Checked on Nate at noon. Asked what he wanted for lunch, fixed it, ate some, banished him from office. He took a shower. Cleaned and straightened office, continued to catalog and organize books. Frowned at book-covered futon, wondered if Nate got enough rest. Resisted urge to look at book in progress on laptop.
Nate decided whether the muses still favored him at 2:00 p.m. If so, made myself scarce, reading one of many books, taking walk, planning dinner. If not, I did something with Nate. If tired, nap. If sickly, accept comfort from Nate.
Dinner at 6:00 p.m. Did something with Nate afterward, even if I had been spending time with him since 2:00.
Muses sometimes seized Nate about 8:00 p.m. Looked in on him at 10:00 p.m. Recommended getting rest, as muses always returned in morning. Took shower. Went to bed, wondered a little about light coming from beneath office door.
* * * *
“I don’t ache,” I told the doctor, sitting on the examination table. “I only get tired when regular people get tired. I haven’t had a fever in weeks. That’s good, right?”
He was listening to my heart and lungs while I was prattling, which was probably not helping him.
“If you’re feeling well, that’s always a good thing,” he said. “You’re taking your pills on time?”
“Yes, I set an alarm,” I said.
“Excellent,” the doctor said. “You’re genuinely committed to staying on top of this, Jasmine, and that’s a really good thing.”
I flushed with his praise.
“It seems your body has entered the asymptomatic latent phase,” he said, scribbling something on his tablet computer with a stylus.
“What’s that?”
“Well, you still have HIV,” he said. “That’s never going to change, unfortunately, unless we have some significant medical breakthroughs in the near future—and there’s always real hope there.”
A cure for HIV? That really was something to hope for.
“This new phase of the virus means that it is lying dormant in you,” the doctor continued. “You won’t really see any of the flu-like symptoms you were experiencing before. You’ll feel practically normal. With continued adherence to your treatment plan, the HIV will be nearly undetectable. I don’t want to give you false hope, though; it will always be a part of you. Not taking your medicine will make it rear its ugly head.”
I nodded. When Nate had first taken me to the doctor, the man had drilled it into me: take the medication. Do not fail to take the medication. Take the medication at the same time every day. Do not skip a day of medication. Take the medication.
“Since you’re taking the medication on time, you also have the perks of some degrees of protection,” the doctor said. “You can live a long time in this phase if you treat it properly. The medication will help keep you from passing HIV to any sexual partners. You will feel normal.”
Normal. That’s all I ever wanted.
“Thank you,” I said sincerely. This doctor was no-nonsense, but he always steered me true.
“I’ll see you in a few months for a blood test,” he said.
Nate was waiting for me outside, doodling on the pad of paper he always carried in his pocket.
“That doesn’t look like something the muses are responsible for,” I said, looking over his shoulder. It was a row of elaborate squiggly lines on the paper.
“The muses are fickle today,” Nate said. “Let’s forget about them, too.”
I hushed him, looking scandalized. “Don’t talk badly about the muses,” I said in a stage whisper. “They might hear.”
“I mean, let’s spend all day having fun so I can clear my head to be more receptive to the muses tomorrow morning,” Nate said loudly. I laughed and hid my face as everyone in the office looked up at him.
We walked to the parking garage and I waited while Nate unlocked the car.
He paused and shook his head. “You know what? No. We’re leaving the car here.”
I cocked my head at him. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “Today we’re goin
g to have a quintessentially New York day and do everything normal—walking and public transit included.”
“Why do you ruin my life like this?” I teased as we walked arm and arm out to street level. “Today’s laundry day. I was so looking forward to pairing up all those socks of yours.”
“Alas, it will have to keep until tomorrow,” Nate sighed dramatically. “Now. I need to know what it is you’ve never done in the city but want to do. This is essential information.”
I shrugged. I’d lived in and around the city my whole life, but it wasn’t like I’d ever had the ability to really see it or do the typical New York things. Then, I laughed and unzipped my jacket. I’d unwittingly worn my “I love N.Y.” shirt.
“It was meant to be,” Nate said somberly. “You will have a tourist day in New York. We’ll begin in Times Square.”
We hopped aboard a bus to get to our first destination. I told Nate how my mother and I would ride the buses all night when we were between places to live. They felt like a second home to me.
“Please excuse me,” Nate said, looking pained as he ripped his pad of paper from his pocket and began scribbling something down on the pages. “I must acknowledge the muses.”
“Doing so will put you in their favor,” I remarked loftily. I leaned my face against the window, remembering what it was like to have Mom’s arm around my shoulder, being the only passengers on a quiet, well-lit bus, a metal cocoon against the dark, unfair world outside.
We disembarked at Times Square. The sun darted in and out from behind the swiftly moving clouds above. It was springtime in the city, and it was wonderful. The crush of people in the area was incredible, vibrant, inspiring, and terrifying all at once. I heard four different languages as soon as I stepped off the bus. New York truly was a cultural center of the world.
“My lady, may I present Times Square,” Nate said grandly, bowing and sweeping his arm out to indicate the scene.
Marquees advertising everything from Broadway plays to footwear rose like monoliths into the sky. News headlines ticked by on the sides of buildings. Everyone wanted to be here, to see this spectacle, and I was a part of that.
