Spiral

by Mila Ferrera

  I awaken in Aron’s bed to the sound of quiet tapping. My head pounding, I reluctantly force one eye open. “What time is it?” I ask, my voice thick with sleep.

  “Three.” Without looking away from his laptop screen, he reaches over and strokes my cheek. “Go back to sleep.”

  I do, but when I wake up again, Aron is gone. Frowning, I wrap the sheet around me and pad into his hallway. There’s a light on in the living room, which overlooks the Schuylkill River. He’s on the tenth floor and has an amazing view from his balcony. I smother a rueful smile as I remember how we spent several long, hypnotic minutes out there in the open air last night. Despite the chilly November wind, I wasn’t cold because Aron was behind me as I leaned over the edge, holding me tight, warming me from the inside out, making my knees weak. And when we were finished, he carried me back inside, stepping over stacks of books and papers. When I’ve been over before, his apartment has been extremely tidy, everything in its place, but it looks like the last two weeks have been hard on him, because now it’s a cluttered mess.

  From here, I can hear the shuffling of paper and Aron muttering to himself. I tiptoe past the front door and the bathroom where we took a long, hot, bone-melting shower together. My body still feels wobbly and loose, slightly sore, but mostly pleasantly relaxed in the aftermath of Aron’s rather intense attentions. But now, as I emerge into the living room, it’s clear it didn’t have the same effect on Aron himself. He’s hunched over his coffee table, wearing nothing but boxer briefs, his laptop on the couch next to him. As I come up behind him, I hear him mention alkylating agents and antimetabolites, which I recognize from oncology rounds as kinds of chemotherapy drugs.

  “You all right?” I ask quietly.

  Aron jumps up and spins around, his eyes wide. He’s clutching his papers in each hand, and they’re crumpling within his grip. “You startled me,” he says needlessly, because it’s obvious from his tense posture. “I thought you were asleep. Is everything okay?”

  I come around the edge of the couch, and Aron meets me in the middle. “I’d be better if you were in bed with me,” I say, sliding my arms around him and kissing his chest. “You must be exhausted.”

  He strokes my hair and kisses the top of my head. “I’m fine. I need to finish this, and then I’ll be in.”

  “What is it?”

  “Research.” And then he launches into an explanation so complex that he loses me in seconds. I know he’s talking about some new way of treating acute myeloid leukemia, and I recognize words like Cytarabine and white cell count and marrow and induction and immune system, but most everything else sails over my head. My gaze drifts over the papers, full of scribbled chemical formulas and print outs of lab results.

  I chuckle when he finally pauses for a breath. “Okay, it’s obvious you’re excited about this.”

  “It’s going to change everything,” he says, looking fondly at his papers. “I have to get this done so I can present it to my mentor tomorrow.”

  I stroke his cheek, running my fingers over the beautiful angles of his face. “Don’t let me stop you, then. Make the world more fair.”

  He grins and kisses me. “I love you, Nessa,” he breathes. “I knew you’d understand. I’ll be with you in a bit.”

  I smile sleepily and stumble back to bed. At first, I try to stay awake, waiting for him to slide between the sheets and wrap his arms around me.

  But when my alarm goes off at six, the realization strikes me: he never did.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Aron is not in the apartment. I venture into the living room and find it even messier than it was last night. I pad over to the refrigerator, my stomach growling, and find it virtually empty. “What have you been eating?” I murmur as I check the freezer and find it similarly bare.

  I return to his bedroom to get dressed, thinking of everything that’s happened between us. It’s been a wild week, but throughout all of it, Aron has been like a dream come true. And me … I lean against the wall as I realize how out of control things were last night. We didn’t use protection a single time. And there were several times. I bite my knuckle and pray that birth control shot I got has already begun to work, wondering at my sudden inability to think through something that basic. But then again … allowing him to feel me up in front of a bunch of club goers … giving him a blowjob as he drove through the city … having sex with him in his car … I sigh. I haven’t been thinking through anything in the last twenty-four hours, apparently. I’m lucky I didn’t get arrested or cause Aron to drive us into the side of a building.

  A wave of unease crashes over me as I realize my impulsive behavior reminds me a bit of my father’s. Not that I was privy to his sex life or anything that creepy—no, it’s that sense of throwing caution to the wind, a feeling of standing on the edge of a cliff with my arms spread, daring a gust to carry me over, even wanting it to … that’s the way my dad was sometimes. When he was manic.

  Chewing my lip, I cross the bedroom again and finally notice a note on the edge of the bed. Got an email from Mark last night—Finn’s been readmitted. Go see Greg today?

  My heart twists in my chest as I stare at the messy, rushed scrawl, different from Aron’s usually neat penmanship. He’s probably already at the hospital. Because if Finn’s back, it can’t be good. Cursing, I toss on my clothes from last night and walk back to my apartment, which is only six blocks from Aron’s. As fast as I can, I shower and get ready for work. I can’t get Aron out of my mind. He was so upset after Davonte died, and from what little I understand, that kiddo was at the same stage of treatment Finn is. And Greg … my stomach churns as I ride the trolley across the river toward the hospital.

  I am in the oncology unit before nine, but the nurse tells me Finn’s been taken for a spinal tap and Greg is with him. She says that Finn was admitted with neutropenic fever and possible sepsis, and tells me Aron has already been in to see him. I thank her and go visit my other consult patients. I try calling Aron, but after I get his voicemail a few times, I realize he’s busy with his research presentation and probably needs me to stop hassling him.

  Greg is sitting in Finn’s room when I get back to the unit just after lunchtime. Finn is sleeping, and he’s been hooked up to two different IVs. Bandages crisscross his scrawny arms.

  “Hi, Nessa,” says Greg, who looks like he hasn’t slept in days. He points to the chair in the room, inviting me to sit. “Thanks for coming.”

  “How is he?” I ask.

  Greg shakes his head. “He got sick so fast. I mean, he’s been sick, but the fever … I brought him in, and I could tell by the looks on their faces that it was bad.” He buries his face in his hands. “I wish he’d wake up and be himself.” He lets out a grunt of laughter. “Hell, I wish he’d wake up and be ornery. Anything. But he’s been so groggy and confused.”

  My throat tightens. “And it scares you.” I know it scares me.

  He nods without raising his head. “I’m trying to be strong for him, letting him know I’m here.”

  “And that means everything,” I say, my voice strained. “You’re the ground underneath his feet. If you’re solid, he has a place to stand.”

  He nods again. I lean forward. “Which means, Greg, that you have to think about how to take care of yourself.”

  While we talk about what sustains him, what renews him, and what holds him together, my eyes keep drifting to the little boy on the bed, so still beneath the sheet, so pale. I wonder where Aron is, if he was thinking of Finn last night as he worked feverishly toward whatever breakthrough he was so certain of making. I’m hoping his presentation to his mentor went well, and that he calls me soon with good news. I finish up with Greg and tell him I’ll check in tomorrow, even though it’s Saturday.

  As I walk to the door, he asks, “Hey, have you talked to Dr. Lindstrom?”

  “Not yet today.”

  “He was pretty excited this morning.” Greg gives me a sheepish smile. “He was talking so fast I couldn’t
really follow what he was saying, but he seemed optimistic. He said he’d be back later with a new treatment he wanted to try. Do you know if he’s got some procedure or something planned? The nurses weren’t sure.”

  “I’ll try to check in with him,” I promise. “But I know Finn is on his mind.”

  The smile stays on his face as he nods. “He’s a great man.”

  “He cares about Finn—and about you,” I say, then leave him to be next to his sleeping child.

  I enter my consult notes into Finn’s electronic record and then check the general medical section to see if Aron’s entered new orders for medication or procedures, but there’s no indication that he saw Finn this morning at all. I check and double-check, because Aron is usually precise and thorough in his documentation, but there’s nothing. As I close out the file with a twinge of unease, I look up to see Joanna Feldman standing there. “Hi,” I say. “Did you happen to see Dr. Lindstrom this morning?”

  She frowns, and little wrinkles bracket her mouth. “Why?”

  “A parent was asking.”

  “I sent him home for the day,” she says, looking at her watch.

  “Oh.” I hop off the stool. “Was he okay?” He was full of energy last night, but I know he didn’t sleep.

  “Lindstrom is overworked and overstressed. It’s affecting his work and his health. I thought you might have noticed.”

  “Me?”

  “I’m well aware that you’re involved with him, Ms. Cavenaugh.” For a moment, her expression softens, turning almost … motherly? “That first time I saw the two of you together, I could tell he liked you, and given his past behavior, I advised him to keep things professional with you.”

  That explains why she looked so unhappy that day in rounds—I thought she was upset with me, but maybe she was concerned for me? But her expression hardens again as she says, “Then I was informed about your past behavior. However, it’s not strictly against any rules, and your professional conduct has improved significantly. But then Aron came to me earlier this week to inform me he was cancelling all his appointments, skipping clinic, handing over on-call to Dr. Kwan, and taking almost two days off to go see you in Wisconsin. At that time he disclosed the exact nature of his relationship with you. He was rather … effusive about it, actually. And since his return, he’s been erratic. This morning he was completely out of sorts, to the point that I decided he shouldn’t be on the unit. I sent him home to get some rest and told him to be back Monday with his head on straight. I trust you will do nothing to distract him from that. I have no idea what’s going on with him, but I need him to be at his best.”

  “Of course,” I mumble. “I know he’s been working really hard on a research project—”

  “I’m not aware of his work in that area. His research mentor is Dr. Portman.”

  “Oh. But he might also be stressed about one of his cases—one of his patients was readmitted—”

  “Finn Beeman. Neutropenic fever and sepsis. I’m covering.”

  “Okay … I know Mr. Beeman was expecting to see Aron—I mean, Dr. Lindstrom—again today … something about a new treatment?”

  She leans forward slightly, all barely controlled impatience. “And like I said, I’m covering, and am responsible for all treatment decisions at this time.”

  I feel her gaze like a laser between the eyes, full of judgment, like I’m part of Aron’s stress. “Thanks for filling me in, and for looking out for Dr. Lindstrom.”

  She gives me a look that says at least one of us is.

  I walk back to the intern office in a daze. Something is just not right, and I’m starting to worry about Aron … and wonder whether I’m the cause of these problems or if something else is going on. My phone buzzes, and I nearly run into a wall as I fumble with my bag, trying to get to it. It’s not Aron, though. It’s my mom. And strangely, I need to hear her voice right now. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hi, kiddo, I was just calling to ask about when you wanted to be picked up next Thursday. Grammy’s been talking about making you your very own pecan pie, since she knows you like it so much. They’re very excited about meeting Aron. Did you ask him if he could come? Would he drive you?”

  “Oh … oh yeah … he said he would.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “How can you tell something’s wrong?”

  “Your voice, Nessa. It’s shaking. You sound like you’re about to cry.”

  I lean against the wall. “I don’t know, Mom. I’m just … God, I don’t know. Things are crazy right now.”

  “Define ‘crazy,’” she says, any playfulness slipping away.

  “I guess … I’ve been feeling a little out of control.”

  “Okay, now I’m going to be frank: How’s your mood?”

  I almost laugh. I guess she’s done dancing around the issue, which tells me how freaked out I must sound. “It’s okay, I guess.”

  “Expansive? Elated? Euphoric?”

  “Not really. I mean, I have my moments.” Like when I’m with Aron … who’s been in an incredibly good mood lately. Like someone gave him a happy pill, Nick whispers.

  “Doing anything risky?”

  This time I do laugh. “Can I plead the fifth on that?”

  “Which is it—sex, drugs?”

  Good Lord. She’s running through the symptoms of mania. Somewhere along the line, she seems to have memorized the diagnostic criteria for bipolar disorder, probably waiting for the day she’d have to use that knowledge on me. I play along, because I’m so turned inside out right now that I need someone to tell me things are okay. “No drugs, but Aron and I … never mind.” My cheeks are practically melting off my face right now as I think of what Aron and I have done together. He’s been pretty much insatiable, and I’ve been keeping pace …

  “What about spending?”

  “What?” Somewhere deep inside me, an insidious worm of dread tunnels through my marrow. “No, I haven’t gone on any spending sprees …” But Aron has.

  “How about sleep?”

  “Now that I think about it, I’ve been sleeping okay …” But Aron hasn’t.

  “Well, you don’t sound overly talkative. Are your thoughts racing?”

  I slide to the floor. “No,” I whisper. But Aron’s are. How many times in the past few days have I noticed that and brushed it off? “Mom, I have to go.”

  “Nessa, I’ll be honest, you’re scaring me a little.”

  “Don’t be scared,” I say. “I’m fine.” But I’m starting to think Aron isn’t. I close my eyes and grit my teeth, holding in the scream.

  I hang up with her, shaking my head. “No,” I whisper to myself. “No, he’s fine. He’s just been working himself too hard.”

  “Nessa?” I raise my head to see Mark striding toward me from the direction of the oncology unit, a frown on his handsome face. “Have you talked to Aron today?” He stops in front of me and holds out his hands, offering to pull me up. “And are you okay?”

  His grip is warm and firm. I miss it when he lets go. “I’m worried about Aron.” My voice cracks as I say it. I look into Mark’s brown eyes, seeking reassurance.

  “Me, too,” he says, shattering my hope for comfort. “Dr. Portman said Aron came to his office this morning without an appointment, and that he was agitated. Like, talking a mile a minute about some breakthrough, but it didn’t make any sense.”

  “Oh, no,” I whisper, realization making my world cave in. “Is Aron with him now?”

  Mark shakes his head. “And I’ve been trying to call, but he’s not answering. He’s not in the lab or on the unit.”

  “Dr. Feldman said she sent him home, but—”

  “Who knows if that’s where he went?” Mark finishes for me.

  “Has he been like this before?”

  “Like what? Confused and delusional? No, definitely not.”

  “It’s not just that. He’s not sleeping, not eating. He’s spending like crazy. He’s … um …” I sigh, knowing my face is brig
ht red. “I believe ‘hypersexual’ is the clinical term.”

  “That kind of reminds me of that time last semester …” He gives me a cautious look.

  “You mean when he slept with half the females in the city.”

  He winces. “Well, it wasn’t that bad, but yeah. He felt really terrible about it after. He was down for a while, beating himself up, totally mopey. He only pulled out of it at the end of the summer.” His mouth quirks into a smile. “Then he met you.”

  His words only make me feel worse. Suddenly, Aron’s “just a phase” explanation makes perfect sense. Except it wasn’t a phase at all; it was an episode. And afterward, I’m betting he was more than “mopey”—he was probably experiencing a completely different kind of episode.

  The rise and the crash.

  The invincibility and euphoria of mania, followed by the awful, jagged pain of depression.

  I take a breath, steeling myself. “Mark, do you happen to know anything about Aron’s family?”

  His brow furrows. “Sure. I met them when they came to see Aron graduate from medical residency.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “And did he mention, maybe, being wealthy? Like, super-wealthy?”

  “Huh? I mean, Aron’s parents are both very successful physicians, but they’re not—”

  “Related to the founder of Ikea?”

  “What?” he says with a laugh. When he sees the look on my face, he gets serious fast. “He told you that?”

  The worst part: I think he actually believed it. “Aron needs help,” I whisper.

  Mark nods as if he’s decided something. Then he looks at his phone and grimaces. “I can’t go look for him, Nessa. Not now, at least. I have a procedure in a few minutes and I won’t be done for an hour.”

  “I’ll go. I don’t have anything scheduled.” And at this point, I can’t focus. I can’t think. I can’t do anything except worry for Aron. “Give me your number?”

  We exchange phone numbers and I leave with a promise to update him if I find Aron, and he says he’ll let me know if Aron shows up at the hospital. My thoughts fracturing and spinning off in a million directions, I walk to the trolley stop. How did I miss the signs? I’m training to be a psychologist. I drilled myself in all the diagnostic criteria for every disorder before my qualifying exams. I should know how to recognize mania. Especially because I freaking lived with a man who was up and down a few times a year, for weeks at a time. It felt different, maybe because I was a child, maybe because my dad was a painter and not a physician.