SICK: Psychological Thriller Series Novella 1

by Christa Wojciechowski

  I am a plain person in looks and charm–short and bottom-heavy, with auburn hair that might be beautiful if it wasn’t so frizzy. My features are small and unremarkable. I was twenty-two then and lived with my parents, who were religious not from passion, but from habit. There was never any reason to stay with them, but there was never any reason to move out either. My life was a practical routine, but I didn’t think enough of myself to hope for more. I had no special talents, no aspirations greater than a steady nursing job, until I saw John’s smile.

  He returned at least once a month after that first visit. The elbow never healed properly. The doctor had to perform extensive surgeries to repair the damage, and so he courted me like that, in the doctor’s office, for almost two years.

  With each visit, I discovered more about him. He told me of his travels around the world. His family was very wealthy, and he was the only child to two self-absorbed parents who were far too busy avoiding each other to ever have paid him mind. He said the only time his mother turned his way was when he was deathly ill, and even then, she was reluctant. So after college, he roamed and did as he pleased, that is, whenever he was in a state of health.

  Soon he came to his appointments without his mother. He said she had become ill, and I found myself gleeful if I spotted him in the waiting room. I hoped every time I opened the door he would be sitting there, in his carefree way, with a smile for me.

  I knew by his chart he suffered from a blood disorder that caused him to bruise easily. He often came with purple contusions and bloody splotches that pooled beneath his skin. He tried to act as if they were nothing serious, but he always let me treat them, and I would catch him watching me with pointed fascination.

  “How did you get these?” I’d ask. They looked too serious to have been gotten from a bump on the coffee table.

  “I don’t even know,” he’d say and laugh.

  He was big and bony and had an awkward way about him. His muscle tone was poor, and he had bad posture. I thought maybe his mother was right about him being terribly clumsy. “You must be more careful with your condition.” I pressed the bandage firmly. “How does that feel?”

  “My mother died,” he said.

  I looked up from the wound. He said it too casually. “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not.” His voice trembled. He blinked his eyes repeatedly. The right corner of his mouth tugged downward.

  “Oh, John. I’m so sorry.” I was caught off guard. I didn’t know what else to say.

  Before I could prevent him, he wrapped heavy arms around my neck and wept. I’d never seen a man cry before. It was strangely awful. His tears soaked into my top. “At least I have you,” he said. “Nurse Suzie.”

  The weight of his body pulled me down. I was trapped beneath his bony limbs. I broke away from him. His face was red and blotchy. I handed him a tissue. “The doctor is releasing you from his care,” I said.

  “Releasing me? But he hasn’t finished the job.” He wiped his nose and flopped his arm. “This elbow is useless.”

  “The doctor said there’s nothing more he can do. It’s as good as it will ever be. I’m sorry.”

  John’s large face, shiny with tears, transformed into an ugly landscape of disgust. “He didn’t fix me? I will sue him for malpractice!”

  The sudden change startled me. There was an anger hidden within him I had never seen in a person before. In my quiet, bland life, people didn’t have emotions that powerful.

  “That dirty fucker. They’re all the same. It’s a business. It’s all a business!”

  “I’m sorry, John.”

  “Why are you sorry?” He hopped off the table with an agility I didn’t think he was capable of. I backed up against the wall, and he stared straight down at me. “Were you the one to tell him to let me go?”

  “No, of course not. I don’t have a say in it.”

  He looked murderously at his braced elbow, and then, as suddenly as his rage erupted, his face completely shifted its expression. His features relaxed. His voice became lighter, smoother. “Then why are you sorry?” he asked, reaching for an errant piece of my hair and put it behind my ear. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “The … the pain,” I stammered. “I’m sorry you’re in so much pain.”

  “You’re sad for me?” He looked at me like no one had ever looked at me, like there was something special about me that only he could see and appreciate. I finally existed, and I didn’t know how to react to his attention.

  He stood uncomfortably close. I felt a peculiar sensation inside my body–everything awake and humming. The feeling was unpleasant, nauseating, but I also felt a peculiar gratification–something like rubbing sore muscles after a workout, or pushing one’s thumb into a tender bruise.

  Then I saw into John’s eyes. If ever the light found a way beneath the shadow of his brow bone, they were a deep blue-green. So dark, they almost looked black. They were fathomless, his eyes, a never-ending pelagic zone. Then he kissed me.

  My life had meaning after that. I had a purpose. I would love him till all his pain went away.

  The years passed, and throughout our marriage, we never left that doctor’s office. One doctor after another puzzled after John’s mysterious conditions. He bled so easily; he was always covered in bruises in various stages of healing. He’d be black, purple, blue, green, and yellow. His bones broke at the slightest strain. He had food allergies, pollen allergies, skin rashes, bleeding gums. Over the years there were ulcers, a ruptured spleen, an appendicitis scare, colds, and flus. John was outraged when one doctor suggested he may have HIV, but the only explanation for his body to seemingly destroy itself was some sort of insidious autoimmune disease.

  The mystery continued, and no matter what I did, I felt him slowly slipping away from me. One day, something would kill him. No matter how strong my love was, it couldn’t heal him. I was failing, and I would end up all alone.

  *

  The next morning, I dressed for work quickly and quietly, not wanting to wake up John. I sneaked downstairs into the kitchen and made a quick tray for his breakfast. He liked to eat Gerber baby food. It was one of his weird quirks that I had gotten used to. He said it reminded him of the hospital. I guessed he was there so much he sometimes missed the food.

  I put the jar of pears on his tray. The Gerber baby stared from the label, its chubby, toothless face so cute I wanted to crush it. I wondered if I’d feel the same way about my own baby.

  I placed a small box of milk and a bowl of dry raisin bran on the tray (the drugs kept John chronically constipated). I laid all his pills on a napkin and admired the colorful bouquet of medications. I planned to wake him after setting down the tray to say good-bye and try to leave before he invented a reason for me to stay.

  I unfolded the TV table and set his tray down. His plastic urinal was full, so I walked to the bathroom and dumped it into the toilet. It didn’t even smell like urine. It smelled like medicine. When I reentered, John was awake and looking frantic.

  “What’s happening? Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I have work. You remember, don’t you?” I passed him the urinal. “Do you have to go?”

  “I hate going in that bottle.”

  “I don’t have time to take you to the bathroom right now.”

  “But I have to go number two.”

  “Oh John!” I slid the breakfast table against the wall. “Give me your hands.”

  “You’re mad at me already,”

  “I’m not mad. I’m late.”

  “I can’t help it, Suze. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Let’s just go.”

  We shuffled to the bathroom. I squatted, my arms around his waist, as I lowered him onto the toilet. I left the door cracked in case he needed me. I took the opportunity to straighten out the bed and call Greta to ask her to come during lunch.

  “Suze!” When I entered the bathroom, John held out a small tuft of toilet paper. I had to wipe for him.
It was too difficult with his neck immobilized.

  “You went. That’s good.” I said.

  His feces were small, odorless, desiccated, black lumps; nothing was left to clean anyway. I flushed the toilet and wrapped my arms around him. “One, two, three,” I counted. He grunted a few times as I lifted him. I dared not ask if anything hurt.

  He was finally back in the bed. Tray table placed within reach. Remote at his left side. Cell phone on nightstand.

  “I think I pulled something last night,” John said, smiling shyly, “in the shower.”

  He was referring to the sex. “Did you overdo it?” I asked as I arranged the sheets over him.

  “Maybe you should give me a shot before you leave,” he said.

  “You should save the Demerol for nights, sweetie. So you can sleep. There’s not much left, you know. You can take your pills with your breakfast.”

  “But you’re going back to work today. You can get more.”

  “I can’t keep doing this, John. One day they will find out.”

  “Just one more should do it. I’ll be healed by the time it’s finished, and then I won’t need anymore.”

  “If I lose my job, we’re doomed,” I said. “I could even go to jail.”

  “Nonsense. You’ve been gone for two weeks,” he said. “They won’t suspect you.”

  “I have to go.” I leaned over and kissed him. “Greta is right next door. I told her to keep her cell phone on her. Call her if you need anything.”

  He frowned. “Can’t you call in? Tell them you need one more day. I don’t want to be left alone. I’m not ready yet.” His breath smelled sour. I had forgotten to make sure he brushed his teeth.

  “Just rest. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  “Don’t go.”

  “You’re doing great,” I said. “You’ll be fine.”

  His lips trembled as he smiled. His eyes watered. “It hurts, Suze. It hurts.”

  I couldn’t stand it. He looked so pathetic. It never failed to move me. “You haven’t complained in days,” I said. “I thought we were managing it well.”

  “You’ve just been so good. I didn’t want to be a bother.” He grabbed my hand and squeezed it, his watery eyes trained on me. Pleading. Always needing me. Poor John. He was helpless. Absolutely helpless.

  “Okay, I’ll give you a shot. Just for this morning.”

  His chest sunk in one large exhale, and his pretty smile pushed his cheeks against the collar. For a moment I wondered if his head might pop off.

  I kept the vial of Demerol hidden, but I didn’t go through great lengths to hide it. Even though John knew it was somewhere in the closet, I was sure he didn’t have the strength or energy to go through my things to find it. It was nestled in a pair of old argyle socks in my drawer. I disappeared into the closet to retrieve it.

  I ripped open a bag of syringes from a box I took from work. I twisted the cap to break the seal, inserted the needle into the vial, and sucked the liquid up inside. I increased the dose slightly to get John through the day. So long as there was no pain, I thought, maybe he wouldn’t be so anxious about being left alone.

  He lay there with his arm ready. The alcohol stung my nose as I sterilized the injection site. I inserted the needle into his skin and slowly pushed in the plunger. Then I removed the needle, capped it, and tossed it into the trash bin. “Better?” I asked, smoothing his forehead as I always did.

  He nodded, his eyes serene and heavy. I kissed his sticky lips. “I’ll call you in a little while. Okay?”

  He closed his eyes and answered me with a lift of his eyebrows.

  “Behave,” I said.

  He answered me in the same way again, with his eyebrows, and then gave me a sleepy, lopsided smile. “You take such good care of me. You must get sick of it sometimes.”

  “I love taking care of you.”

  “You’re an angel.”

  “I have to go.” I made my exit as he drifted into euphoria.

  “A dream come true …” I heard him trail off as I got to the bottom of the stairs.

  I slipped out and took a deep breath. The morning was humid but cool and laced with the smell of wet grass and sweet flowers. I didn’t realize how stuffy our house was until I inhaled the fresh air.

  I jumped as I noticed Peter peering up at me. He was kneeling at the hedgerow near my car pulling weeds.

  “Peter.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “I’m returning to work today. John will be home alone,” I said in an effort to dissuade him from sneaking in. “Greta will be checking in on him.”

  He grumbled in acknowledgement.

  I unlocked my car, a ten-year-old compact Nissan with a crack in the windshield from hitting a deer. The muffler was spoiled and made an embarrassing rattle wherever I went. As I rolled past the mansion, my battered car disrupting the otherwise beautiful scene of the morning, I spied Pete in the rearview mirror. He stood up and watched my car as I drove away.

  *

  Sometimes going to the office was a vacation for me. Even though it was work, it was still much less demanding than being with John. I could operate on autopilot. I would not have to perform. I would not have to coddle.

  I worked for Dr. Korn. I don’t know if his surname prophesied his profession, or if he decided to treat corns as a joke. I hated the sound and feel of the word, an aversion to corn or Korn in any context, so I called him Dr. K. I hoped to slip in unnoticed and take my seat before he realized I was not on time, but he was right behind the door.

  “You’re late, Susan.” he said, his thin lips pressed together.

  “I know. I’m sorry,” I said.

  “How is he?” he asked.

  “He’s healing,” I said.

  “That’s good news,” he said flatly. I had already worn his sympathies away. No one had it in them to feel sorry for me anymore.

  Dawn was at the reception window covering for me. She was a very dark-skinned woman with fiery orange hair and full, rosy lips. The contrast was stunning, and I always envied her exotic looks. Beautiful put-together woman seemed to be a species apart from me. She got up from my seat when she saw me. “There she is,” she said.

  I gave her a hug. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s better for my health.” She poked me with a glossy, pink acrylic nail. “If you ever showed up on time I’d be so shocked I’d have a heart attack.”

  “That’s not funny,” I said. I sat down in the swivel chair, which was still warm from Dawn’s body heat. “So what have I missed?” I asked.

  Dawn caught me up on the past two weeks. I enjoyed hearing about the usual complaints and gossip. Even though it was all about medical problems, they were not John’s medical problems. Mrs. Gupta had bunion surgery. A famous daytime soap actor came in with plantar warts. One new patient came in with gangrene of the big toe. Dawn said she almost vomited when he took of his shoe. I had seen and smelled some disgusting things in Dr. K’s office, but I never threw up and was proud of that. What most people found to be grotesque were the processes of the body that fascinated me most: death and regeneration on a cellular level.

  I fell back into my routine of filing, setting appointments, and seeing patients to their rooms. Dr. K asked me to get some antibiotics from the medication room. No one was near, and the Demerol was right in front of my face. The opportunity was so ripe, as if God left had it for me. Okay, John. One more time. I slipped the glass vial under my left breast where it was trapped between my flesh and the underwire of my bra. No one would see anything under my baggy scrubs.

  I went through the rest of my day without even being aware of the vial, speaking to my coworkers and the doctor with the narcotics hidden right under my shirt. How easily John convinced me to take it. How easily I felt entitled to it, as if it were our own stock of medication.

  But I needed it. How else would John sleep, and if he didn’t sleep, how on earth would I sleep? We needed that Demerol more than anyone
else. Thank you, Dr. K. I will repay you somehow, someway, someday.

  After my shift, I stopped for fried chicken. I usually made frozen dinners or Ramen noodles to save money and avoid cooking, but I considered my first day back to work a special occasion. So was the fact that I had more than enough Demerol to keep John comfortable for the next few weeks.

  A cold front had moved in, and the temperature made a sudden, twenty-degree drop. The sun had set, leaving an eerie glow over the horizon, and a dank chill set into my bones. The car rattled, pushing out a nauseating cloud of exhaust. The sky seemed so empty and black, like there was nothing but a cold vacuum surrounding me. Normally I’d feel the doom closing in, an unease that had been with me since I married John, but the vial of Demerol still beneath my breast and the warm steam rising from the carton of food would not let hopelessness completely enter me.

  I pulled slowly through the gates and past the mansion, praying that my clamoring entrance didn’t interrupt The Arabs’ dinner. Our duckling house was dark and quiet. I shuffled to the door and I fumbled for the keys with one hand, but before I found them, the door swung open. I almost screamed when I saw John standing in front of me.

  “My god! What are you doing up?” I asked.

  His pupils were constricted; his hair was flattened on one side. His pajama top was open and hanging off one shoulder; the scars looked black in the shadows. Only a sliver of light from the street lamps shone on his face. “Soothe,” he said, instead of Suze, as he hung onto the door. His collar was gone.

  “Where is your brace?”

  “It was itchy.” He scratched at his neck.

  “Oh my god, John. Go sit. I have to put this stuff down.”

  He stepped to the side. I heard him shuffle behind me as I went into the kitchen and put the food on the counter top. I flicked on the light and turned around. John swayed in the doorway with a lazy smile on his face. His legs faltered.