by Watson, Lucy
“Lift your tongue.”
He does.
I fight back a grin as I place the thermometer under his tongue. He closes his mouth and moments later it beeps.
The flashing red screen tells me his temp is above normal even before I can read the numbers. 102.4.
It’s high but not crazy high, though without knowing his base temperature, it’s hard to say how his body will react. My base temp is 97, so anything over 101 and I feel like shit.
“You have a fever.”
“No shit,” he states, his voice gruff and tired.
Ignoring him (something I’m getting good at), I shake out three Advil from the container and grab a half-full bottle of water from the dresser.
“Sit up, cupcake. Time to take some meds.”
After a moment, when he figures I’m not going to let up, he reluctantly sits up a little. I drop the Advil in his waiting palm.
“When did you start feeling sick?” I ask in my best nurse-voice. A voice that garners a 96% compliance rate from even my most stubborn patients. Let’s see if it works on assholes too.
“No talking.” He throws back the Advil, and I hand him the water to wash them down.
Guess not.
“Your throat hurts?”
He hands me back the water, plops back down, and closes his eyes with a tired sigh. “Everything hurts.”
He looks younger with his eyes closed. Part of me wants to know what horrors he’s seen that gives his eyes that darkness that goes beyond color. Beyond the scars he wears.
I think back to the horrors I’ve seen, to the night my world shifted, and wonder if I have that sort of darkness in my eyes too.
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly feeling a chill. “Answer a few questions, and I’ll get out of your hair.”
He groans, clearly frustrated, but I continue not to give a shit. And speaking of shit… “Have you had any diarrhea or abdominal cramping?”
He exhales, meeting my eyes. “No. But I got a five-foot pain in my ass that won’t shut up.”
I’m five one and a half, thank you very much.
“Is your neck especially painful or stiff?”
“Rolled paint for ten hours.”
I smile inwardly, a sinister part of me revels in the fact he’s sore too.
“Do you have any rashes on your body?” I ask.
“Do you see any rashes?” he returns.
I look over his chest, stomach, neck, and arms, seeing defined muscles littered with violent scars that make my heart hurt, but no rash. At least none that I can see in this light.
“Do you have any muscle or body aches?”
He gives me an annoyed, pointed look, under heavy lids. “Again, rolled paint all day.”
“Right.” I clear my throat. “Well, it’s most likely just a virus. But to play it safe, we should go have you checked out.”
Would I typically recommend someone go to the emergency room for a moderate fever? Heck, no. But this just isn’t someone, this is Rose’s Sweet Benny, and if something were to happen to him on my watch, I don’t think I could forgive myself.
“Not goin’ anywhere.”
I exhale, hating that I’m relieved. There was a time when the smell of disinfectant, latex, and lingering cafeteria food brought a smile to my face. Not anymore.
“Do you mind if I take your blood pressure, then?”
“Yes.”
I’m not sure if the cuff I have is large enough, so I let it go. “Alright. I’ll just grab a few things to help you get comfortable.”
“I’m fine,” he snaps, his glossy eyes glaring at me from under heavy lids. “Just go.”
Too bad I’m not a big fan of people telling me what to do.
Am I the kind of nurse to torment someone who’s sick for my own personal satisfaction? Turns out when that someone is Ben, the answer is a big fat yes.
“Be right back, hot stuff.” I call over my shoulder as I walk to the door, “Get it? Hot stuff, because you have a fever.” I’m here all week, folks. I shoot him an overly bright smile from the doorway that he probably can’t see, but it makes me feel good, so I hold it steady.
He groans and mumbles something with the words annoying and ass. My grin widens as I walk out.
I head down the hall to the kitchen with a surge of something familiar zinging through my veins—it adds a sureness to my step and a sharpness to my eyes.
The first time I remember this feeling I was nine years old and our neighbor Griselda showed me how to help my dad take care of my mom. She took my hands in her weathered ones and told me in her thick Spanish accent that I had special hands with a healer’s touch. That these special hands of mine couldn’t save my mom, but they could help to ease her pain and give her peace. I could give her that gift.
Griselda gave me the gift of purpose in a hopeless situation. I could make my mom feel better with my special healer hands. And I did. Until the very end.
I reach under the sink for the small tan bucket and line it with a white garbage bag. Next, I grab a mixing bowl, fill it with ice and water. Finally, I sling a few clean dish towels over my shoulder, stick a couple of bottles of water under my arm, and head back to my grumpy patient.
I’ve spent most of my adult life searching for purpose in hopeless situations. Using these hands to make people feel better. Or at least, I try to. I want to say I do this because Mother Theresa is my homegirl, but in truth, I do it because it brings my mom back to me and, if only for a moment, at times I feel her there with me. Sometimes, I can even smell her lavender and honey scent.
And I kinda like helping people too.
* * *
I try sleeping on the couch.
I really do.
Unfortunately, when someone’s under my care, I’m like a moth to a flame. A moth with obsessive thoughts. Or maybe I’ve just become conditioned to check on patients, even if that patient is Ben.
Maybe because it’s Ben.
So instead of making countless trips to empty the water-vomit bucket, which is as pleasant as it sounds, or to retake his temperature and change the cool hand towel on his forehead, I determine my best option is to sit up in bed next to him. Because if I sit up, I’m not technically “in bed” with him, or at least that’s what I told myself.
So here I am sitting up instead of sleeping, which is what my body’s begging for, listening to Ben’s steady breathes.
This sucks. Big time.
I glance over at the clock: 2:58 am.
It’s true that nothing good happens after midnight, but I’ve found the universe saves the worst shit for 3 am. It’s called The Witching Hour for a reason.
As if on cue, Ben rolls over with a deep groan and traps my body in place with his steel arm. Resting his head on my lap, he tucks his giant hand under my ass and pulls me toward him like he’s fluffing a pillow, then snuggles deeper into me, until he’s comfortable.
It seems the top of my vagina is a comfortable place.
Fucking Witching Hour.
I hold my breath, like somehow that will keep him from waking, and try to maneuver myself out from under his crushing weight.
As soon as I gain an inch, his heavy arm tightens around me, followed by an angry caveman grunt.
Well, alrighty then…
I exhale and rest the back of my head against the wall, accepting my current vagina-pillow fate. My body starts to relax until the quiet shiver of his body against mine causes my stomach to drop. I don’t think about why my stomach drops, knowing his fever is spiking again. But it does.
I glance at the clock to see it’s been a little over four hours since his last meds. I’ve learned, through repeatedly unsuccessful attempts to wake him, that he responds better to a gentle approach.
“Ben,” I whisper, gently moving his damp hair from his forehead. “You need to take your medicine,” I continue, my words drenched in soothing tones.
“Hmmm?” His voice is deep and throaty.
Taking in a steady
breath, I give him a gentle shake. “You need to take your meds.” Another shake. “Ben. Let me up.”
“Mmmkay,” he slurs but doesn’t move.
“You need to let me up,” I say, tapping on his arm until he stirs. The movement causes a cloud of sport deodorant mixed with man-sweat to drift to my nose.
I’m about to try to wake him up the hard way, which involves reaching over to the bottle of water and pouring it over his head while using my not-so-soothing voice, when he lifts his arm, just enough to let me out. My legs start to painfully tingle as they regain the blood supply cut off from the weight of his body. If I get a freaking Charley horse, there will be hell to pay.
I walk-limp to his side of the bed, my tired eyes focused on the thermometer and Advil, and grab both from the nightstand and a bottle of water from the floor.
I kneel at his bedside. “Ben.” I wait for the grunt of acknowledgment. “Open your mouth.” He does it without hesitation.
I slip in the thermometer and wait for the beep. I take it out, the red light flashing brightly in the shadowed room: 101.2.
I set the thermometer aside, shake a few Advil into my hand, and ready the water.
“I need you to sit up.”
He opens his palm, his head now resting on his arm, so I drop the Advil in. He lifts his head and palms in pills, so I hand him the water.
Last time he drank water he threw it up.
I should’ve brought the bucket.
He takes another swig, then blindly holds out the water in my direction, so I take it.
You’re welcome.
I set the water down on the floor and stand back up, looking down at Ben, not really sure what to do with myself. It feels too weird to hop back on the bed. Too personal for some reason.
Just as I’m about head to the den, Ben raises his arm in a silent invitation. Is he hallucinating? Am I? Both are plausible at this point.
He gives a deep grunt for me to hurry because his arm’s getting tired. Yes, I speak Caveman now.
I move under his arm, stealing a few pillows for my back, and retake my position. Except now his head is resting on my lower stomach instead of my vagina. Not that that’s any better. It might even be worse.
He moves his arm under the pillows while his other hand curls around my hip and tucks under my ass. This time he doesn’t fluff me, which is good. Instead, he throws his heavy leg over mine. I wait for the fact he’s using me as a human body pillow to piss me off, but I sort of like it.
Even if it’s Ben.
I’m glad the only light in the room is coming from the digital clock. I don’t want to see Ben’s strong body wrapped around mine. It’s bad enough I have to feel it.
Yes, I do weird shit when I’m nervous. But the truth is, I just do weird shit. Period. Which explains why I start running my fingers through his hair in soothing strokes.
I like the way his hair feels, damp and soft against my fingers. Is soft hair a redeeming quality? My mind travels to the last time we were in bed together and the angry call from Derek because the soft-haired-jerk sent him pictures of it. Yep, it’ll take a more than silky-soft hair to redeem this man.
I’m tempted, so unbelievably tempted, to reach over and grab my phone, taking the world’s best revenge-selfie with Ben looking like he’s holding onto me for dear life, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I gently trail my nails against his scalp, always liking the way that feels, and close my eyes.
This is going to be a long night.
The deep throaty moan that sounds from my lap causes my hand to still, and my eyes shoot open.
After exhaling a shaky breath, I feel him nudge his head against my still hand like a puppy. I’m almost afraid to look, but against my better judgment, I turn my gaze down to see him trying to nudge my hand into motion. My heart swells a little.
Of course, he’s cute when he’s sick. Bastard.
“More,” he slur-demands.
His deep voice jumpstarts my fingers. I want to say something sarcastic, but if I’m being honest, I’m afraid to ruin the moment.
I don’t think I’ve ever been held or held someone like this, or fit against someone so perfectly. I flip the universe off for making Ben so snuggle-worthy.
He whisper-moans a mumbled string of words I can’t quite make out, but they sound something like hunting-sandwich-budget-fork...
I’m not gonna lie, I think about recording this shit, saving it as my ringtone just to mess with him. I grin at the thought while I continue moving my fingers in a hypnotic motion.
Before long I close my eyes, feeling myself drift off, the sound of Ben’s soft snoring lulling me to sleep.
10
Breakfast from Hell
Some people cannonball from the dock into a freezing lake, getting the shock over in a single breath. Other people slowly walk in from the shore, teeth chattering, feet digging into the pebbled sand, forging ahead one painful step at a time.
I’m usually a cannonball-type girl.
Not today.
Not after dealing with Ben, who rotated between a cute sick puppy and a grumpy asshole, over the last few days.
I’ve seen ninety-year-old men move faster than I’m moving right now. The Advil I took is doing little to dull the ache from all the rushed painting I had to do while Ben slept.
I had to work while he slept because if he saw me painting, he’d grab a roller and try to help, even though he was obviously sick and utterly dead on his feet.
And he says I’m stubborn.
The positions I was forced to sleep in thanks to Ben haven’t helped the state of my stiff muscles either. Ben, who grumble-yelled for me whenever night fell, and when I’d walk into the room, raised his arm for me to get in.
Yeah, that happened.
I say positions because he moved and molded me into whatever awkward position he was comfortable in. Whenever I tried to readjust myself, he’d just grunt and hold me tighter, keeping me put.
So, I went with it. I may have even liked him wanting me to be so close. I may have even moved a few times so he would grunt and pull me tighter against him.
If it weren’t for the fact I woke up this morning with a desperate need for chocolate chip pancakes, I’d still be there, in his arms, under his legs, wrapped around his body, pathetically pretending.
My mouth waters as the buttery batter starts to bubble. I sprinkle in the chocolate chips and flip them, then reach into the cabinet for a porcelain plate (no paper plate for these bad boys). My shoulder muscles burn from the movement.
The sound of the refrigerator door causes my stomach to jump. I look to see Ben pulling out a bottle of water. He’s thrown on a wrinkled T-shirt and jeans. His hair is damp from a shower and sticking up everywhere since he obviously didn’t bother with a comb.
“Can you grab the syrup?” I say, plating my perfectly fluffy pancakes.
He grunts.
Then I hear the fridge shut, and Ben walks past me, giving me a whiff of clean man. He sits down at the table, water bottle and syrup at his front. His eyes are shadowed, his lips are a little chapped, and his olive skin has a slight grayish pallor, but guess what?
He still looks better than I do.
His dark eyes hold mine for a moment. I shift my feet under the weight of his stare. Maybe he’s hungry.
“Want some pancakes?”
Say no. Say no. Say no.
“Sounds good,” he says, his voice hoarse and gravelly.
Shit.
I grab another porcelain plate, hardly feeling the pain in my shoulders this time. “Do you like chocolate chips or plain,” I ask, hoping he doesn’t notice the nerves giving a slight tremble to my voice.
Why am I nervous? Because his eyes are still on me and I can’t read his face. And it’s freaking me the hell out.
The theme from Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events starts to play in my mind. Look away, look away…
If Netflix were a college course, I would totall
y ace that shit.
“However you make ’em is fine.”
I pour some more batter onto the griddle.
“You’re feeling better?” I ask, sprinkling on some chocolate chips. His fever broke the night before last, but whatever he has seems to be lingering.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Thanks for letting him use me as a human pillow? Giving him meds? Emptying the vomit bucket? Or thanks for asking the question. Probably the latter.
“No problemo,” I say, flipping the pancakes, seeing they’re burnt around the edges. I think about making another batch, but instead, I slide the burnt pancakes onto the second plate and shut the griddle off. “Glad you’re better.”
Grabbing both plates, I walk to the kitchen table. My steps wobble as nervous energy presses down on my shoulders. I set the pancakes in front of him with a small smile. I don’t ask myself why I give him the perfect pancakes.
“Looks good,” he says, before taking a sip of water.
“You should try my pumpkin pancakes. They’re awesome.” I don’t know why I just said that. I literally just saw the recipe on Yummly a few days ago. I clench my jaw to keep from saying any more stupid shit.
He grunts and gives me a chin nod.
My face feels hot and prickly.
I once honked and yelled at some chick who drove into my lane, almost hitting me because she was too busy texting to pay attention to where she was going. She called me a bitch and gave me the bird. I returned the kindness. We ended up pulling into the same parking lot, walking side-by-side into the same bank, and standing in the same line. I thought that was awkward, but eating breakfast with Ben takes awkwardness to a new level.
I take a seat about to dig in, and realize I forgot utensils and my coffee. I scoot my chair back to stand, but Ben beats me to it and walks over to the drawer, pulls out two forks and two knives, and grabs my coffee from the counter.
Okay, there’s a good chance I’ve set the bar low, but the fact he grabbed my coffee gives me hope that we might become friends. The thought causes a genuine smile to break free.
He sets down the utensils and my coffee, then retakes his seat without so much as a glance my way. My smile fades.
