Listed: Volumes I-VI

by Noelle Adams

  Ruth didn’t seem to expect a reply. She just kept wiping Emily’s face—not as efficiently as Amy or as gently as Paul, but as if she meant it. She continued in a low voice, “I’m so sorry for you both. But I’ve been praying. And I’ll keep praying for you, dear.”

  For no good reason, tears slipped out of Emily’s eyes and streamed down into her hair.

  “Now, don’t you cry, dear,” Ruth said, wiping away the tears with the washcloth. “God is good. God is always good, even when we don't see it. I believe in miracles.”

  Emily had never believed in miracles. She knew she was going to die, and she knew she was going to suffer horribly before she finally did.

  But Ruth’s deep sympathy—for both her and Paul—meant a lot, just the same.

  * * *

  Emily didn’t like the new nurse.

  The woman looked to be around sixty and had graying hair that was pulled back in a severe bun. In Emily’s fever-addled brain, she halfway believed the new nurse was a cruel schoolmarm from an old story, a strict disciplinarian with her hapless students, pitiless in her harsh pursuit of order and obedience.

  She did everything she was supposed to do—gave Emily her Tylenol, wiped her face with a cool cloth, and helped her sip water—but she seemed to do it by some sort of schedule, rather than before Emily knew she needed it the way Amy had. She never helped Emily in little ways like adjusting her covers or changing her water out for a colder bottle.

  Emily was sure the woman was a consummate professional, well-trained and well-experienced. The agency wouldn’t have sent her out to them otherwise.

  But Emily didn’t like her at all.

  She told herself it was only temporary. The new nurse was just a substitute until Amy was able to return or Lola arrived tonight. Emily managed to keep from moaning or complaining, since every time she did the new nurse gave her condescending looks of disapproval.

  So Emily suffered in silence, tossing uncomfortably and waiting impatiently for the early afternoon, when she could take another one of the good pills and hopefully doze off.

  She’d dropped off in a hot, restless drowse when the nurse woke her up by saying in a grating voice, “Your husband is on the telephone and insists that he speak to you.”

  Emily blinked and tried to process why a phone had been thrust into her limp hand. For some reason, the nurse’s abruptness was as painful to her as a slap in the face.

  Finally, Emily managed to get the phone to her ear. Her head was aching terribly again, and she was sweating so much the phone almost slipped out of her fingers. “Paul?” she said into the speaker, her voice cracking on the one word.

  “How are you?” Paul voice sounded strange, although there was no way she could make her mind work enough to unravel why that might be.

  “Okay. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. I can’t get home for lunch, but I wanted to make sure you were doing all right. How is the nurse they sent over? She sounded kind of brusque.”

  Emily swallowed over her dry throat and tried desperately to think. Paul seemed strange, like he was exhausted or upset or something. He wasn’t coming home for lunch. Something must be wrong.

  A wave of dizziness washed over her, and there was no way she could pursue the subject. He wouldn’t tell her what was wrong. She knew it. She barely had the energy for this conversation—much less an argument about his not sharing things with her.

  But she wasn’t going to add to his problems. She could deal with an unsympathetic nurse for one day. If she complained, Paul would probably come home until he was able to arrange for someone else.

  He didn’t need to deal with that. He had enough on his plate without her whining.

  All this Emily figured out in a few seconds of muddled reflection. “She’s fine. I’m okay.”

  “All right. Good. I’ll be home by five.”

  “Okay.”

  Emily thought Paul would say goodbye and hang up then, but he didn’t. He stayed on the line and didn’t say anything.

  She was worried about him, and she felt so terrible. She almost started to cry.

  “Okay,” Paul said at last, still sounding so strange.

  “Okay,” Emily repeated.

  Her vision blurred over and a flood of heat overwhelmed her. The phone slipped out of her hand, but she shifted her head so her ear was still close to it on the bed.

  She didn’t know when Paul hung up the phone. She never did hear the call disconnect.

  She must have just dozed off, and the new nurse must have come in and picked up the phone from the bed, because it was gone the next time she was aware enough to look for it.

  * * *

  Emily felt worse and worse as the afternoon progressed.

  She knew her fever was going up because the world became a hot whirl of noise and pain. At one-thirty, Emily tried to ask the nurse for one of the new pills Dr. Franklin had left for her the evening before. She was disconnected and disoriented, but she was sure it was time for another one. It might not bring down her fever, but at least it would mask some of the pain with that fuzziness.

  But the new nurse didn't know where the pills were, since they weren't at her bedside with everything else, and Emily didn't know where to tell her to look for them.

  So Emily didn’t get her pill, and her fever kept rising.

  Eventually, her awareness started to blur into a succession of horrifying, surreal images.

  She was burning up in her old house, but for some reason Paul was there with her, consumed by the blaze before she was. She saw his lean body and handsome face scorch into blackness.

  The new nurse was a cruel, old-fashioned schoolteacher in a bun, shirtwaist, and pince-nez, making her stand outside the schoolhouse in the scorching sun and lecturing her about laziness and insubordination.

  She and Paul were Hansel and Gretel who had found the gingerbread house, and the new nurse was the witch who lived there. She pushed Emily into the oven while poor Paul had to watch helplessly.

  Emily knew she needed to fight off the witch so she could get back to Paul. She tried. She tried. But she couldn’t.

  She couldn’t get away at all. She couldn’t even move.

  When conscious awareness slammed back into her muddled mind, Emily realized she still couldn’t move. She was trying to toss and turn but could only lie flat on sheets damp with her perspiration.

  Something cool and wet was wiping her face, which should have felt good, but her inability to move sent a flare of panic through her that overwhelmed any feeling of relief. She cried out for help, her voice cracked and broken.

  There was water in her mouth then, which was good, which she needed, but she was so scared and upset she almost choked on it.

  Then the coolness wiped over her face again, but she was still too, too hot. She still couldn’t move her arms.

  She struggled helplessly, finally aware enough to open her eyes. The new nurse was leaning over her, cooling down her face with calm efficiency.

  Emily didn’t want to see her. Everything in the world was clawing at her, and the new nurse just made it worse.

  She tried to change positions so she could cool down a little and think more clearly, but she was trapped. She was literally trapped. She tossed her head around until she was able to see that her arms were bound with Velcro straps, the kind that were used to restrain patients who were out of control and a danger to themselves or others.

  Emily panicked at the realization, frantically fighting the restraints, begging for the nurse to let her go. She didn’t think she was a danger to anyone, and she desperately needed her arms free. Her voice wasn’t working, though, and the words just choked in her throat.

  She tried to calm down, somehow knowing, even in her heated confusion, that if the nurse realized she was lucid again, that she was no longer delirious, then Emily would be released from the straps.

  But she couldn’t calm down. It felt like she was still in a nightmare. She writhed on the hot bed and cri
ed out pitifully, drenched in sweat and still subjected to the woman wiping her face to bring down her fever.

  Emily choked and whimpered and thrashed helplessly.

  “What the fuck is going on?” a familiar voice demanded in almost a roar from the doorway. “Get away from her!”

  The voice was very loud, and it grated on her ears and head, but nothing in the world had ever sounded so good.

  Emily started to sob in relief as Paul strode over in his suit and tie. He shouldered the new nurse out of the way and started to release the straps.

  “Mr. Marino,” the nurse said, “She was out of control from her fever. She struck me more than once. It’s standard procedure to restrain a patient if—”

  “Be quiet,” Paul cut into the explanation, his voice harder than Emily had ever heard it. His eyes, though, were haunted as he gazed down at Emily and finished releasing the straps.

  Her arms finally free, Emily strangled on helpless sobs, each one wracking her body with pain. She reached out for Paul, and he pulled her into his arms.

  “Mr. Marino,” the nurse said, “You need to know that—”

  “I didn’t say you could talk yet.”

  Emily was bawling and couldn’t stop—all of the pain, fear, and trauma shoving her into a total emotional collapse. She clung to Paul, and he pulled her even closer. His arms around her were so tight she could barely breathe. But she wanted it, needed it. His expensive suit was cool and soft against her skin, and she buried her face in it.

  “I’m here,” he murmured against her hair, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

  After a minute, when Emily’s sobs had lessened, Paul loosened his embrace. “Can you talk to me for a minute?”

  She felt for a moment like she was going to pass out—from heat and pain and the release of too much emotion—but she breathed deeply and wiped at her face with her hands. Then nodded up at Paul.

  “Did she do anything else to you?”

  “She tied me down.” While, in a different moment, her rational mind might have understood how and why such a thing had happened, right now it felt like an unbearable violation. She couldn’t remember ever feeling more scared in her life, not even when Vincent Marino had burned down her house.

  “I know,” Paul said, his features twisting briefly. “Did she do anything else? Did she…hurt you?”

  The nurse made a sound of outrage, but something stopped her from speaking.

  Emily shook her head and buried her face against Paul’s suit again. The fabric was messy and damp now, but it still felt cool against her hot skin.

  She wasn't looking, but Paul must have turned back to the new nurse. “Get out.”

  “Mr. Marino,” the woman said, with impressive composure, given the situation, “I realize this has upset you. But medical ethics have always considered it appropriate to restrain patients who pose a danger to—”

  “Get out!”

  She must have left, but Emily didn’t see her. She could barely move now, on the verge of blacking out completely.

  She felt Paul’s hand on her forehead and then her wet cheek. “You’re burning up, baby. I’m going to get a bath ready for you, if that’s okay.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  When Paul got up to draw the bath, Emily curled up into the fetal position, using all the energy she had left to breathe.

  She couldn’t speak, and thankfully Paul didn’t try to make her. In silence, he pulled off her clothes and carried her into the bathroom. It smelled like lemon and eucalyptus so he must have used the oils Amy had brought over yesterday.

  Emily sighed hoarsely in utter relief when he lowered her into the bath. Then she sighed again when he wet a washcloth and stroked it over her hot, messy face.

  “Thank you,” she managed to mumble, as her body started to cool down. “Feels good.” She closed her eyes as she let the pleasant sensations ease her pain and tension.

  Paul kept wiping her face with the cool cloth, and it felt so good. The scent from the oils seemed to cool her from the inside out, and the water embraced her hot, aching body.

  She either fell asleep or passed out before the bath was over because she had no memory of getting out.

  * * *

  Emily’s fever finally broke that evening.

  She was utterly exhausted when it was over but blissfully not hot or in pain, and she was able to have a lucid conversation at last.

  Evidently, Ruth had overheard Emily crying out in her delirium and had come to the bedroom to see if she could help. The nurse had told her that she had it under control. Although Emily hadn’t been strapped down at that point, Ruth had been worried and had called Paul to tell him.

  Paul had left the courthouse to come check on Emily. He told her the prosecution was just presenting the evidence from the forensic accountants, and there was no reason he’d needed to be present. He’d arrived before two-thirty that afternoon, which meant Emily had been delirious for less than an hour.

  It had felt like an endless nightmare at the time, but it hadn't lasted long at all. Now that it was over, she could rationally assess and conclude it hadn’t been the end of the world. The whole incident seemed to have faded into a fuzzy blur of heat and fear.

  She tried to explain that to Paul, who was still treating her like she was made of crystal and sometimes looking agonizingly guilty.

  “The nurses you found for me are both wonderful,” Emily told him. They’d eaten a late dinner in her room, and now he was sitting in a chair next to her bed. “This didn’t happen because you did anything wrong. You've taken care of me perfectly. Even that…even that probably wasn't as bad as it looked. It probably just felt so horrible because I was sick. If I actually struck her when I was delirious, maybe she really did need to—”

  “I saw you, Emily,” Paul interrupted thickly. “I saw how much she’d scared and upset you. No one gets to do that to you.”

  Even though she was sure he was somehow being unreasonable, she was touched by his words. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but he was too far away, so she just gave him a hazy smile.

  He smiled back faintly.

  “Are you all right? What’s going on with the trial? Why weren’t you able to come home at lunch?” She remembered how strange he’d sounded on the phone and was starting to worry about it again, now that she was physically recovering.

  He tightened his mouth and glanced away from her. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  “Paul,” she prompted, a warning in her voice.

  “They’re a little worried about the defense's strategy, and they needed some background information from me.” When she started to question him more, he continued, “It’s complicated, Emily, and you’re exhausted. I’ll go into it all tomorrow. I promise.”

  She just nodded. She was tired, and she could see Paul was too. He looked battered. “Why don’t you go lie down? I'm okay now, and you need to rest."

  He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

  She started to argue, but she could tell he wasn’t going to budge, so she thought of another way to handle it. “Then why don’t you lie down with me?” she suggested, patting the bed beside her. It was fresh and neat now, since Ruth had changed the sheets again before she'd left. “I’m not hot and sick anymore, and there’s no reason for you to sit in that uncomfortable chair all evening. If you won’t go to bed, at least lie down with me.”

  Paul hesitated but eventually relented. He still wore his suit and tie, although he’d taken off the jacket. He toed off his shoes and climbed into the bed with her.

  Too tired to be self-conscious or worried about rejection, Emily scooted over and nestled against him, relieved when he wrapped an arm around her. He smelled like Paul, like he'd had a really long day.

  She rested her cheek on the side of his chest, draped an arm over his flat belly, and listened to him breathe. Gradually his breathing slowed down. Gradually his body softened, relaxed.

  So did Emily's.


  She hated being sick. She hated it. Paul had needed her, and she hadn’t been there for him.

  He’d always been there for her.

  ***

  Emily woke up feeling really good.

  She was immediately aware that she wasn’t achy and feverish, which alone would be cause for celebration. Even before her eyes opened, she realized she must have slept well. She felt fresh, like she'd had a long night of unbroken slumber.

  She also felt warm and toasty. Not hot like a fever—just nicely cozy. It was partly from the pleasant weight resting on her belly.

  When she opened her eyes, she realized the weight was Paul’s arm. He was still sound asleep beside her, still wearing the white dress shirt, red tie, and black trousers from yesterday’s suit. Sometime during the night, she must have rolled over from where she’d been cuddled up at his side, and he must have rolled with her, since he was now on his stomach with one arm slung over her middle.

  She liked how it felt.

  In Egypt, he’d always woken up before her, so she never knew how they had ended up in bed. She liked the fact that Paul was still asleep now, that he’d been able to relax so much with her last night, that he’d instinctively moved with her when she rolled over in her sleep.

  She liked being close to him, in any way she could get.

  Emily looked at him as he slept, the rumpled dark hair, softened features, and thick eyelashes incredibly appealing. She felt a slow rising of an emotion that was tender, protective, almost maternal. She wanted to stroke him, cradle him, somehow ease the wounds of his so sensitive soul. Most people in the world had no idea who Paul Marino really was. But she did. She did now.

  She shifted her arm slightly so she could see her left hand, and the sight of his rings there still gave her a silly little thrill.

  Paul was her husband. She’d chosen him mostly because he was convenient, but she'd made the right choice. She never could have found a better one.

  He would never let her be his wife for real.

  She was his special duty, his responsibility, and she knew he genuinely cared about her, but he just didn’t want her as a woman. She could understand that. She’d never been his type. They only had a couple more months of marriage anyway. Just because she thought about having sex with him almost every night didn’t mean he’d want her the same way.