On the street between him and the school, a young woman struggled with a cart of groceries as her son pulled manically on her other arm.
Seeing her distress, Nathan jumped off the wall and started across the street in her direction. He yelled out to her, “Hey, do you need some help?”
Just as he reached her, two of the cart’s wheels tipped sideways off the curb, threatening to dump its precious contents in the road. Nathan caught the side of the cart with his leg.
The woman looked flustered. Her long, blond hair draped over her shoulder in a messy braid, and she wore an oversized sweatshirt with stained cuffs. Her son tried his best to release his wrist from her grasp, flapping both hands repetitively. His eyes darted wildly up and down the street.
“Oh, thank you!” she said gratefully. “Nice catch.”
Nathan hoisted the cart back onto level ground.
“Do you think you could help me load the bags into my trunk? I really need to get him into the car.” She motioned to the manic little boy at her side. “The busy traffic downtown upsets him. Normally I don’t take him with me, but our neighbor who usually watches him is sick.” She fumbled around in her purse for her car keys.
With his free arm, the little boy began slapping himself repetitively on the forehead.
The woman swooped down and quickly corralled the flailing boy into a tight hug, dropping her keys on the sidewalk in the process. Her son squirmed against the pressure and began yelling loudly.
Nathan bent down to collect the woman’s keys and barely missed being kicked by the boy’s thrashing foot as his mom carried him toward the backseat.
With the boy tightly secured in his car seat, the woman turned and retrieved her keys from Nathan. She popped the trunk of her car.
Nathan followed her around to the trunk with the cart. “Is your son okay?” he asked as he loaded her groceries into the trunk.
“He’s fine. Like I said, just a little overstimulated. We’ll be okay. Thanks again.” She waved in gratitude and hurried around her car to the driver’s seat.
Nathan shrugged off the odd encounter and turned back toward the food bank, pulling the empty cart behind him. The little boy flashed in his mind. Something was strange about him, he thought, but he couldn’t pin it down. The boy hadn’t even seemed to notice Nathan during their interaction, and the way he flailed and hit himself was more extreme than any temper tantrum Nathan had ever seen before. He was embarrassed for the child’s mom, having to manage such an ill-mannered and unsociable kid.
Nathan had only just returned to his perch on the wall and pulled his flask out of his pocket when his mom came barreling out the back door.
“Nathan James Newman, what on earth are you doing out here? Why aren’t you inside?”
She spotted the flask in his hand. Her beady eyes gave her a hawkish quality, particularly when honed in on a target, as they were now.
“You better put that away right now. Honestly, Nathan, you can’t even go an afternoon without a drink? What is wrong with you?” She sighed heavily.
“At least no one saw you back here. We are part of the community outreach team. How do you think it would look if they saw someone from the church out back drinking on the job?” She gave him a scalding glare.
Nathan remained silent. A hot flash of anger surged inside him. Why couldn’t she have come out five minutes ago when he was helping the woman on the street? He opened his mouth to defend himself, but the heat of her indignation caught in his throat and forced it shut. His lips bobbled open and closed silently a few more times like a fish caught on dry land, gasping for air. Nathan huffed in defeat, realizing that her judgment had already been passed. Stashing his flask in his pocket, he followed her back inside to finish his sentence.
*12*
Amara paced anxiously on the sidewalk across the street from the dance studio where Henry had asked her to meet him for a surprise. Annoyingly, all he’d told her was to wear comfortable shoes. It only took Amara a quick internet search of the address he’d given her to figure out the rest of the surprise. That, and she’d accidently found a waiver for La Vida Salsa Studios in his room last week.
Amara arrived at the studio dressed practically in a loose-fitting tank top and leggings. Her hair had grown considerably over the summer and was pulled back into a loose knot at the base of her neck. She fiddled with a loose strand in front of her ear. The lesson would start any minute. Where was Henry? She pulled out her cellphone to call him. Three times in a row it rang through to voicemail.
Half an hour passed. She watched through the glass storefront across the street as the instructor paced casually, stretched, and checked the studio’s phone for messages. Should I say something? she wondered. She checked her phone again. Nothing. Another ten minutes went by before she decided to cross the street. She pushed through the front door onto the small section of carpet that constituted a lobby.
“Excuse me,” she said as she approached the counter. “I think we had an appointment for a dance lesson, my boyfriend and I, but he hasn’t shown up yet. I was wondering if he’d happened to call here.”
“Nothing here, sorry. I just checked the messages.” The woman behind the counter was petite with a square frame, dressed in spandex shorts and an oversized striped sweater that hung off her right shoulder. “But it’s too late to start a lesson now anyway. Plus, you still need a partner. I have a beginner class starting in twenty minutes. You could drop in on that if you like.”
Amara was confused and concerned. It wasn’t like Henry not to show, especially to something that he had planned. Did he forget? Did she get the date wrong? The time?
“Maybe another time,” she replied. “Thanks anyway.”
She backed out of the door onto the bright sidewalk and retreated across the street to her car. Something wasn’t right. Amara could sense it.
Pulling around the backside of Henry’s house, she steered into the alley and parked. His bike was there, stationed on the gravel easement under a pine tree. The lights were off on the top floor, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t home. The large windows in the building provided plenty of natural light.
Amara hurriedly jumped out of her car and strode toward front door. The air inside the foyer was hot and stale. A stacked staircase on the left lead to the upper floors, which she climbed at a brisk pace. She knocked on his front door. No answer. After a few seconds, she knocked again. A loud crash came from behind the door. She tested the doorknob and found it unlocked. Pushing inside, she was met by the stench of vomit.
A soft moan came from somewhere on her right. Amara followed it. At the end of the hall, she saw a leg on the floor protruding from the bathroom doorway. She gasped and ran the length of the hall.
“Henry?” she called.
He moaned again.
Amara opened the door carefully so as not to catch him in its swing. His eyes opened, but he didn’t see her.
“Henry can you hear me?” she cried out in alarm. Bending down over him, she assessed the scene. His pulse, breath, and pupils were normal. Vomit floated in the toilet bowl and covered the towel on the floor. He tried to focus on her.
“Mara,” he moaned, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Her concern grew insurmountably. Did he take something? She scanned the room again but didn’t see any evidence of dangerous substances.
“I couldn’t get to the phone. I tried to call, but I didn’t make it. I’m sorry I left you waiting for me.”
“It’s fine, really. I’m just worried about you.” Amara brushed his apology aside politely. “How long have you been lying here?”
“I don’t know. What time is it?” He tried to roll onto his back to see out the window, but the pain seared in his head and he halted.
“After six o'clock. You look pale. I’m going to get you some water. Can you sit?”
A weak “I’ll try,” was all he could muster in reply.
Amara returned from the kitchen with a glass of ic
e water. Henry was right where she’d left him. She sat on the floor at his side, stroking his upper arm. “We need to get something in you, Henry. You’re going to get dehydrated.”
Amara helped him to a seated position, propped on his left arm. She placed the glass in his other hand, but didn’t release her grip entirely. Together, they raised the water to his lips. He swallowed, and immediately felt the cold water rising back up in his throat. Forcefully, he tried to push it down again, but the liquid pushed back harder. He coughed and lost it all on the bathroom floor.
Amara frowned. “Henry, this is serious. Maybe I should take you to the hospital.”
“No, no, it’ll pass,” he insisted, resting his head back down on the tile. “The cold helps a bit.”
Amara stood again and retrieved a washcloth from the basket in his room. She ran it under the faucet with cold water, wrung it out, and placed it on his forehead.
“I’m going to stay here tonight,” she said, tucking a damp, red curl of hair behind his ear.
It was a long, restless night. Henry was too uncomfortable to sleep, and Amara was too consumed with his care to think about rest. Closing her eyes never even crossed her mind. She brewed a pot of ginger tea to ease the nausea paired with a couple of pain pills, but neither of them stayed down long enough to provide any relief.
Mid-morning, Henry finally got his legs under himself enough to slowly shuffle to the bedroom, where he collapsed on the mattress. Amara reclined across the foot of his bed, resting her back on a pillow against the wall. Only then did she rest her eyes, but she couldn’t get her brain to calm down no matter how exhausted she was. Worrisome thoughts intruded her mind. Through heavy eyelids, she glanced at his sleeping form. His skin was pale, and he was breathing heavily, having finally found a moment of slumber. She watched him sleep for a while longer before gently shaking his shoulder.
“Henry,” she called quietly. He stirred. “I’m taking you to the hospital. You need to get something in your system, and I don’t know what else to do here. Do you think you can make it down the stairs?”
His eyes fluttered as he nodded on the pillow. He rolled on his back, trying to collect his strength, while Amara sprang into action. She hastily grabbed a clean pair of sweatpants, a T-shirt, and his fleece jacket from the closet before returning to the bedside.
“We need to change your clothes first.” She laid the clothes out on the bed. “Can you help me?”
Henry slowly propped himself up on both elbows.
“Good,” she said. “Pants first?”
He managed to sit fully upright and slide to the edge of the bed.
“My head is spinning. I don’t think I can stand yet. Give me a minute.” He felt the whole left side of his brain throb loudly.
Amara helped him remove his shirt and don the clean one, overlaid with the jacket.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
“I guess so,” Henry mumbled.
She positioned herself in front of him. “Hang onto me,” she instructed.
He reached for her shoulders.
On the count of three, they heaved him upright. She bent quickly to pull his pants down below his knees. Shifting his weight slightly, she successfully freed both feet from the jeans, then completed the entire process in reverse. He sat while she tied his sneakers.
Miraculously, they made it down the stairs and out to her car with only a few short rest breaks, though Henry had to keep his hand on the wall or railing to steady his balance. She cranked the ignition of her car, grateful for a timely start when the engine caught.
St. Anthony’s Hospital was only a few miles away on the north side of town. The traffic lights were merciful, granting them a timely arrival. Amara shouldered Henry into the waiting room of the emergency department. He slumped in a green, vinyl armchair while she checked him in at the reception desk.
After a painfully slow thirty-five minutes, a young, blonde nurse wearing navy blue scrubs emerged from the bubbled glass door and called his name. “Mr. Claybourne?”
Shielding his left eye with his palm, Henry rose and walked slowly to the nurse. Amara remained seated for fear of intruding on his privacy. Henry turned back at the doorway to look for her.
“Are you coming?” he asked.
She shot out of her seat, then hesitated. “Only if you want me to.”
He nodded invitingly.
The nurse took his height and weight before leading them to a private exam room. Amara moved a chair into the far corner of the room and sat down. Henry climbed onto the short exam table.
The nurse confirmed his information and checked his vital signs, plugging it all into the screen mounted on the wall. Then she excused herself and slipped quickly through the sliding door.
A white-haired doctor came in shortly afterward.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Azrael. How are you feeling today?” he asked as he reviewed the chart.
“I’ve been better,” Henry replied wearily. “I can’t keep anything down, and my head is killing me.”
“How long have you had these symptoms?”
“Since yesterday afternoon, but the headaches have been happening on and off for the last few months.”
Amara raised her eyebrows in surprise. He’d never mentioned anything about this to her before.
“Where does it hurt?” asked Dr. Azrael.
Henry made a sweeping motion over his left temple.
“Any other symptoms?”
“I get really dizzy when I stand up. And nauseous.”
“Any congestion? Weakness in your arms or legs?”
Henry shook his head, then grimaced.
Dr. Azreal took a penlight from his front coat pocket and clicked it. He traced the thin beam of light over his palm a few times to test it before lifting it to Henry’s temple. With a swift flick, he shined it briefly over Henry’s pupils. Satisfied, he clicked the light off.
Next he put his forefinger in the air and drew a wide pattern through Henry’s line of sight, tracing all the boundaries of his peripheral vision. The doctor dropped his finger and folded both hands on the exam table.
“Well, I’m going to start with a flu swab. If that’s negative, we’ll do an EKG and an MRI. In the meantime, we’ll start an IV to replenish your electrolytes.”
Henry nodded in consent, then painfully grimaced again.
The doctor quickly disappeared. He walked briskly for his age, escaping almost as agilely as the young nurse before him.
The nurse reentered the exam room with a wheelchair to transport Henry off for the tests. Amara returned reluctantly to the waiting room and slumped in a chair directly across from the door. She thumbed absent-mindedly though a magazine. Her eyes drooped uncontrollably.
Two hours passed before a nurse roused her from her rest and led her back to the exam room. She found Henry lying on the exam table with an IV line protruding from his left forearm. Color had returned to his face, and his hazel eyes reflected a bit more of their usual luster.
The doctor returned with a stack of paperwork. “Flu swab was negative. Good news is your EKG is normal, which means your heart is working fine. We gave you some extra-strength acetaminophen plus the IV, which seems to be helping for the headache and nausea. The MRI results will likely take a day or so to get read. I’m going to send you home until the results come. Try to start eating and drinking a little bit, something easy like a banana or toast. Get as many fluids in as you can. I will call you with the results when I have them. Any questions?”
“That’s it?” Amara asked incredulously.
“Well, there’s not much else to do until we get more results. And he seems to have gained a good amount of strength back. I prefer patients wait at home where they are comfortable, when they can.”
“It’s fine. I’m feeling better, honestly,” Henry chimed in from the table. He waved Amara off kindly and absently added, “Thank you, doctor.”
Sliding off the table, Henry accepted the paperwork and shook Dr. Azrael�
�s hand. He walked slowly, but steadily, out of the office.
Amara followed dutifully, nodding a faint farewell to the doctor as she passed.
After leaving the hospital, she dropped him back at his building and escorted him inside his apartment before he insisted she go home to rest.
“You’ve done so much for me already, I can’t ask you for anything else. I don’t even think I’ve seen you eat anything all day. And you definitely haven’t slept. I promise, I’m feeling much better. Besides, my mom is insisting on coming by later to check on me. I’ll be fine. Please go home and take a nap.” He leaned in to hug her, nestling his face into the hair in the crook of her neck. “And maybe a shower,” he teased, sniffing her neck dramatically.
She’d rolled her eyes. “If you insist.” She didn’t wanted to leave, but she had to admit she was exhausted.
“I do,” he replied.
Standing on the tips of her toes, she kissed him on the lips, pulled away, and scrunched her nose. “And you need to brush your teeth,” she mused before she turned away to leave.
*13*
A week had passed since the episode at the hospital, and Amara hadn’t heard from Henry much, which was unusual. Though she called him nearly every day, she’d only managed to speak to him twice since then. The first conversation had consisted of listening to a colorful rant about how his mom had practically tried to move herself into his apartment when she’d come to check on him that night. They’d spoken again briefly this morning when he’d invited her to his place for dinner. His voice had sounded strong, but she’d not been able to help but feel that she’d heard an odd twinge in his tone.
That evening, they squished in together on the small window seat in his kitchen. Amara folded her leg up on the bench so that she could face Henry directly and balanced her plate in her lap. Henry’s plate rested on a small nightstand that he’d pulled in from his bedroom. Take-out boxes of Thai food lined the counter. Henry stared silently at his plate, pushing a piece of broccoli around aimlessly. Amara could sense his reservation.
She tried to break the silence. “I see you evicted your mom. Did you threaten her with having to pay rent? Or did she come to her senses on her own?”
Life After Death: A Story of Love, Loss, and Living Page 6
