Coming Home (57 page)

The doctor was quick but thorough.  “Viral pneumonia,” he
pronounced as he tucked his stethoscope back into his pocket.

Casey stepped forward in alarm.  “Shouldn’t he be hospitalized?”
she said.

“It looks a lot worse than it really is.”  The young intern gave
her what was supposed to be a reassuring smile.  “His temp’s nearly 105. 
That’s why he feels so rotten.”

Her pulse began a slow hammering.  “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Let’s say we wouldn’t like to see it go much higher.  Fever’s a
perfectly normal reaction, the body’s way of fighting the infection.  We’ll
give him aspirin to bring down the fever and an antibiotic to prevent
complications.  Keep him off his feet, make sure he gets plenty of liquids, and
he should start feeling better in a few days.”

Rob grumbled when the nurse gave him an antibiotic injection, but
he fell asleep again once they were in the moving car, and she had to wake him
when they reached the house.  With the blanket wrapped around his shuddering
body, he stood up, took a step, and faltered.  She caught him by the arm and
supported his weight all the way to the house, silently thanking God that she
had a guest bedroom on the first floor.  She could never have gotten him up the
stairs.

When she came back with his luggage, he was slumped on the edge of
the bed, head cradled in his arms.  She rubbed his shoulder.  “You get into
your jammies,” she said, “and I’ll heat you some soup.”

His pupils were dilated, and he had a drifty look about him that
frightened her.  But his grin was sassy, if weak.  “I don’t own any jammies,”
he said.

“Then get into your birthday suit,” she said briskly.  “I’ll be
right back.”

When she returned with the soup, he had discarded his clothes and
was nestled beneath the covers.  Like an obedient child, he allowed her to feed
him, and it was his docility that frightened her more than anything.  He ate
half a cup of Campbell’s chicken noodle before burrowing back under the covers
and falling asleep. 

Casey tossed another blanket over him and pondered her dilemma. 
Her bedroom was upstairs, and she was terrified to leave him alone.  She would
have to sleep here.  On the shelf in the closet, she found a spare pillow and a
comforter.  Overwhelmed with fatigue, she curled up beside him on the bed,
expecting sleep to overtake her immediately.  Instead, after eight hours behind
the wheel, she saw a continuously moving expanse of gray asphalt passing behind
her closed eyelids. 

Fighting back nausea, she cautiously shifted position and
rearranged her blanket.  She couldn’t allow herself to get sick.  Rob needed
her.  Three years ago, she’d slept by her daughter’s bedside like this.  If she
could do it then, she could do it now.  But those three years seemed half a
lifetime ago.  She’d been younger then.  So much younger, and not nearly as
tired.

His thrashing woke her near daybreak.  He was tossing restlessly,
mumbling disjointed words in his sleep, the bedding askew and tangled around
his lanky limbs.  His side of the bed was saturated with sweat.  She touched
his bare shoulder, and he mumbled something and twisted away from her.  “Wake
up, Flash,” she said. “Time for your medicine.”

“Lemme sleep,” he mumbled.  “Do th’ damn sound check tomorrow.”

His skin was hot as smoldering coals.  “Rob,” she said again, “you
have to wake up.”

“I am.  I’m awake.”

“Then open your eyes for me, sweetheart.  Look at me.”

“Jus’ wanna sleep.”

“Rob,” she said, more forcefully this time.  “Open your eyes.”

“No,” he said.  “Lemme sleep.”

“I can’t,” she said.  “If you won’t wake up and take your
medicine, I’m going to have to go call the doctor again.”

“Don’ leave me...need you.”

It struck her again, that nameless emotion that kept worming its
way into her heart uninvited.  She brushed a single curl away from his face. 
“I won’t leave you,” she whispered.  “I’m right here beside you.”

“So tired,” he said.  “Jus’ wanna sleep.”

“All right,” she said, and patted his shoulder.  “You sleep.”

When he had quieted down again, she went to the kitchen phone and
called the hospital.  “Look,” she told the doctor, “he’s still running a raging
fever, he’s delirious, and I can’t get any medicine into him.  I don’t know
what to do.”

“He’ll continue to run a fever until the virus works its way out
of his system.  What you need to do at this point is bring the fever down.”

“Marvelous.  And how do I do that?”

“Cold water.  As cold as you can get it.  Throw in a few ice cubes
if you have any.  And call me back if it doesn’t work.”

She went to the kitchen and grabbed an armful of dish towels,
filled her biggest Tupperware bowl with cold water, and dumped in a tray of ice
cubes.  She’d probably never earn any humanitarian awards for her nursing
skills, but at this point, she was so desperate that she would have scattered
the entrails of small animals around the bed if the doctor had told her to.

She set the bowl on the night stand, dipped a towel into the
frigid water and wrung it out, then hesitated, belatedly aware of the intimacy
of what she was about to do.  She stood momentarily paralyzed, looking at the
man in the bed.

Don’t be ridiculous, Fiore.  You’re thirty-three years old.  It’s
not like you’ve never seen a naked man before.  This is no time for modesty.

But I can’t—

Of course you can.  You have to.  There isn’t anybody else.

“Oh, for the love of God,” she said aloud.  She flung back the
covers, wrung out the towel a last time, and resolutely applied it to his
heated flesh.

He let out a string of curses and fought her like an enraged
grizzly.  She fought back with all her strength, dodging his flailing arms and
ignoring his disjointed words of rage as she soaked towel after towel in ice
water and pressed them to his fevered flesh, dipping, wringing, pressing,
clenching her teeth and rolling with him when he tried to avoid her, murmuring
gentle words to soothe his agony.

Outside the window, the sun rose, but she was too intent on her
struggle to be aware of the passage of time.  He outweighed her by a good sixty
pounds, and if the pneumonia hadn’t weakened him, she could never have held him
down.  Her shoulder muscles felt as though they were being ripped from her body,
and just when she knew she couldn’t possibly fight him any longer, the fever
broke, sweat beading up on his damp skin and pouring off him in tiny rivers. 
She pulled the covers back up over his shoulders and collapsed in exhaustion
next to the pile of discarded towels on the floor.  Drenched to the skin, sore
and bruised and shivering, she buried her head in her arms and rocked, too
drained to cry.

After a while, she pulled herself to her feet and staggered to the
bathroom to stand beneath a hot shower until her shuddering stopped.  She put
on a flannel nightgown and Danny’s faded terrycloth robe and went back to check
on Rob.  He was lying on his stomach, his breathing raspy, but he seemed to be
sleeping comfortably.  She adjusted the covers, touched the back of her hand to
his forehead.  To her relief, his temperature felt normal.

For three days and three nights, she stayed with him, reading in
the rocking chair by day, catnapping on the bed beside him at night.  Attuned
to his every breath, she woke him every eight hours for his medication,
force-fed him liquids, monitored his temperature fanatically.  He was passive,
agreeing to whatever she said.

Sometime during the fourth night, she awoke to find his side of
the bed empty.  She bolted upright in panic, and then he padded barefoot into
the room, wearing wrinkled jeans and a towel around his shoulders.  His hair
was wet, and he’d shaved.  Scowling, he said, “You look like hell, Fiore.”

“Where were you?  You scared me half to death.”

“I took a shower.  I was so ripe I could smell myself.”  He sat on
the edge of the bed and looked at her with eyes that were still glassy.  “I
mean it, Casey.  You’re ready to drop.  You need some sleep.”

“I’ve been sleeping,” she protested.

“Yeah, right.  Two or three hours a night.”

“Do you have any idea how sick you’ve been?”

“Yeah,” he said softly.  “I know.”  He buried his face in his
hands, rubbed his temples.  “What day is it?” he said.

“Tuesday.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Since Friday.”

“Jesus,” he said.

“Park your carcass in the chair,” she said, “and I’ll change the
bedding while you’re up.”

“You’re wiped out.  I’ll do it.”

“Shut up,” she told him.  “I’m in charge here, and you don’t get a
vote.”

She stripped the bed and remade it with fresh linens, then carried
the dirty bedding to the bathroom and stuffed it all in the hamper.  When she
returned, he was back in bed, jeans tossed carelessly on the floor, one hand
rubbing his forehead.  “I think I overdid it,” he said.  “My head’s spinning.”

She bent over and picked up his jeans, folded them.  “Will you
please stay in bed?  I’m too weak to pick you up if you fall flat on your
face.”

“At least I remember my own name now.”  He drew back the covers
and patted the mattress, and she didn’t even consider turning down his invitation. 
After all they’d been through together, propriety was no longer even a
consideration.  She crawled in between crisp, cool sheets and he turned out the
bedside lamp and drew her into his arms, and tangled together like lovers, they
slept.

She woke up alone, disoriented because the sunlight was slanting
into the room at the wrong angle.  She stretched and glanced at the clock on
the bureau and was astonished to discover that it was nearly three o’clock in
the afternoon and she’d been sleeping deeply and dreamlessly for twelve hours.

She found Rob slouched on the porch swing, a cup of tea in his
hand, his bare feet propped on the wooden railing beneath her pink hanging
geranium.  “Hey,” he said, his face lighting up, “she lives.  My very own
sleeping beauty.”

His color was vastly improved, and the glassy look had left his
eyes.  “You look almost human,” she said, sitting beside him and resting her
bare feet on the railing next to his.  “How long have you been up?”

“Since about nine-thirty.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I figured if you didn’t get some sleep, I’d the be one taking
care of you.”

“And just what have we been up to all day?”  She took the teacup
from his hand and helped herself to a sip of Earl Grey.

“Absolutely nothing.  I forgot how great it feels.”  With one
foot, he set the rocker into languid motion.  “You shouldn’t be drinking after
me,” he said.  “I might still be contagious.”

“We’ve been sleeping in the same bed for four days,” she reminded
him.  “I’ve already been exposed to any germ you might be carrying.”

“True,” he said.  “You’re the first woman I ever slept with that I
never slept with.”

She wiggled her toes in the warm afternoon sunshine.  “Clever,”
she said.

“I thought so.  Of course, we could remedy the situation pretty quickly
if we wanted to.”  He rubbed his foot suggestively against hers.

“You’ll live,” she pronounced.  “If you’re feeling randy, you must
be better.”

He left his foot where it was, resting lightly atop hers.  “This
place is so peaceful,” he said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.  “I
could get real used to being here.”

“I could get real used to having you here,” she said.  “You have
no idea how scared I’ve been.  I thought I was going to lose you.”

He threaded his fingers in the hair at the back of her neck and
began aimlessly stroking the skin beneath.  Gruffly, he said, “Don’t you know
I’m too ornery to die?”

Thinking of Danny, she said, “Nobody’s too ornery to die.”

He hesitated just long enough to tell her he’d followed her train
of thought.  “Well, I’m better,” he said.  “Tired and weak, but better.”

“Thank God.  What would I do without you?”

His fingers continued to play restlessly in her hair.  “It
probably wouldn’t be a pretty picture,” he said.

“It
would be a very ugly picture,” she said, turning to look at him.  His eyes were
still closed, and his fingers were working their magic on her, and something
warm and tenacious worked itself into the crevices around her heart and
squeezed tightly.  She cleared her throat.  “Did you find something to eat?”
she said.

“Tuna
fish sandwich.  There’s more in the fridge if you want one.”

“I
think I’ll take a shower first.  I’m beginning to understand what you meant by
ripe.”

She
took a long, hot shower and dressed in real clothes for the first time since
Friday, and then she made a much-needed trip to the grocery store.  Rob
insisted on coming along, even though she thought he needed more time to
recuperate before he ventured too far from home.  “I hope,” she told him as
they strolled the snack food aisle, “you’re going to give yourself some real
down time before you get back to work.  You need it desperately.”