Lightning (27 page)

“I told you,” she lowered her voice conspiratori-ally, “because I love you.”

“You're crazy,” he said, as he leaned over and kissed her. And then he toasted her with the Yquem. “To Simon's little cousin,” he said harmlessly, but what he wanted to say was “To the love of my life,” but he didn't. It would have been too disloyal to Alex. How could this happen to him? How could Alex get cancer and he fall in love with someone else all at once? It never dawned on him that the two events were related.

“I'm going to be very grateful to Simon one day,” he said conspiratorially, and she laughed.

“Or very angry. That's the bad thing about all this foreplay. You're building up an awful lot of expectations about me. I might turn out to be very disappointing.”

“Not likely,” he said confidently, aching to make love to her right then. Every moment they spent together was a tantalizing caress that tortured his body.

He walked her all the way home afterwards, but as always, he refused to go upstairs with her. They lingered forever, kissing on the doorstep, with her caressing him, and his hands covering every inch of her body.

“We might as well go upstairs, you know,” she tried to entice him with her lips and her hands, and he was about to burst with desire. “I think it might be a great relief to the neighbors.”

“It would be a great relief to me, I can promise you. I'm not sure how much longer I can stand this,” he said, kissing her again in desperation.

“Not long, I hope, sweet Sam,” she whispered in his ear, as her hands gripped his buttocks and pressed him to her. His body found her hot and throbbing against him, and he shuddered with desire when he realized she wasn't wearing any underwear, even in the cold November wind of a New York winter. It took all the strength he had to resist her.

“You're killing me,” he said, laughing hoarsely with the delicious agony of it. “And you'll catch pneumo-ma.

“Then you'd better keep me warm, Sam.”

“Oh God, how I want to.” He closed his eyes and pressed her against him.

He finally managed to tear himself away from her, though with ever greater difficulty, and he walked the twenty-five blocks home to regain his senses. It was nearly midnight by then, and Alex was dead to the world with the light on. He stood looking at her for a long time, silently apologizing to her, but his heart longed for Daphne, not Alex. He quietly turned off the light, and went to bed. And it was six o'clock in the morning when he woke to a strange grating sound. It was rasping and mechanical, and it went on and on and on, and no attempt to ignore it would keep him asleep. At first he thought it was a machine, and then he thought it might be the alarm, and then some crazy sense told him the elevator might be broken. But no matter what, the sound wouldn't stop, and when he finally woke up and turned over, he realized that it was Alex, vomiting and retching uncontrollably in the bathroom.

He lay there for a little while, not sure if he should bother her or not, and then finally, he got up, and stood in the doorway.

“Are you all right?” For a long time she didn't answer, and then finally, she nodded.

“Great, thanks.” She hadn't lost her sense of humor, but she still couldn't stop retching.

“Is it something you ate?” Even now, he still had denial.

“I think it's the chemo.”

“Call the doctor.”

She nodded and went on vomiting, and he went to shower in the guest bathroom. He came back half an hour later, and she had stopped and was lying on the bathroom floor with a cold cloth on her head, and her eyes closed.

“You're not pregnant, are you?”

She kept her eyes closed and shook her head. She didn't even have the energy to insult him. She had gotten her period before the surgery. Another “blue day” had come and gone since, and he wasn't even speaking to her, let alone making babies. How did he think she could be pregnant? And she was having chemotherapy. How could he be so stupid? For a smart guy, he was a real jerk when it came to cancer.

She finally got enough energy to crawl across the bedroom on her hands and knees and call Dr. Webber. The answering service put her through immediately, and the doctor told her that it wasn't an unusual reaction to the first treatment, though she w&s sorry to hear it. She suggested that she eat carefully, but a little food might actually help to settle her stomach, and she had to take her pill today, no matter how sick she felt, or how much she vomited. She could not miss it. She also offered her additional medication for the vomiting, which might help, but Alex was afraid to put any more chemicals into her system, and the additional medications had their own side effects as well.

“Thank you,” Alex rasped, and went to vomit again, but this time it was all over in a few minutes. There was nothing left but bile anyway. Her whole body felt as though it had been turned inside out. It took her forever to dress and she was green by the time she went to the kitchen to watch Sam and Annabelle having breakfast. He had helped her dress, and had kept her away from Alex.

“Are you sick, Mommy?” Annabelle asked, looking worried.

“Sort of. Remember the medicine I told you about? Well, I took some yesterday and it made me kind of sick.”

“It must be very bad medicine,” Annabelle said loyally.

“It's going to make me better,” Alex said firmly, and forced herself to nibble a piece of toast, in spite of all her inclinations not to touch it. She noticed then that Sam was looking over his paper at her in acute annoyance. It was bad enough to wake him up vomiting, but she knew how he hated her explanations to Annabelle. “Sorry,” she said pointedly at him, in less than pleasant tones, and he went back to his paper.

She hung back while he left to take Annabelle to school, and he made no further mention of her vomiting that morning. But as soon as they were gone, Alex threw up again, and thought about not going to the office. She sat down on her bed, and cried, and decided to call Liz, and then something made her stop. She wasn't going to give in. She was going to go to work if it killed her.

She washed her face again, and brushed her teeth, and put another cold cloth on her head, and then with a look of determination she put on her coat and picked up her briefcase. She had to sit down in the hall again, and her stomach turned, but she made it to the elevator and down to the street, and felt better. The cold air helped, but the cab ride didn't. She felt desperately sick again by the time she got to work, and she barely made it to the ladies' room, where she was violently sick again. She looked awful by the time she got to her office, where Brock and Liz happened to be talking. She was almost a shiny green, which really shocked them. They both followed her inside and looked at her with obvious concern, as Alex collapsed into her desk chair with a look of exhaustion.

“Are you all right?” Liz asked worriedly as Brock stared at her, frowning.

“Not really. It's been a rough morning.” She closed her eyes, as she felt a wave of nausea come over her again, but she refused to give in to it, and it passed. She opened her eyes again to see Brock and not Liz. He looked very worried.

“She went to get you a cup of tea. Do you want to lie down?”

“I don't think I'd ever get up again,” she said honestly. “Why don't we get to work,” she said bravely.

“Are you up to it?”

“Don't ask,” she said grimly, and shaking his head, he went to get his papers. As always, he was working in his shirtsleeves, with his horn-rims pushed high on his head when he didn't need them. He had pencils in his pocket, a pen in his teeth, and a foot-high stack of papers when he came back to her office, with a box of Saltines for Alex.

“Try these.” He dropped them on her desk, and sat down with the work they were sharing. And as they made their way through it, he watched her carefully. She looked awful, but she seemed to feel a little better while she was working. It distracted her from her miseries. And Liz kept her well supplied with tea, and she nibbled at the crackers Brock had brought her.

“Why don't you lie down for a while during lunch?” he suggested, but she shook her head, she didn't want to break their momentum. They were doing some very detailed work on one of her new cases. And they ordered chicken sandwiches instead, which Alex actually felt well enough to eat by lunchtime.

It was fully an hour later when the food caught up with her, and suddenly she looked panicked, as she felt it rising. She had a tiny bathroom adjacent to her office, and without a word to Brock, she disappeared, and vomited horribly and then retched for half an hour while he couldn't help but hear it. It was agonizing listening to her, and after a while he went out, and came back with a cold damp cloth, an ice pack, and a pillow. Without knocking or saying anything, he opened the door, which she hadn't locked fortunately, and she suddenly felt his strong arms behind her, as she knelt huddled over the bowl, and slumped against the wall. For a moment, he was afraid she had fainted but she hadn't.

“Lean against me, Alex,” he said quietly, “just let yourself go.” She didn't argue, she didn't say a word, she was just too sick and too grateful for the help, from any quarter. She slumped back into his arms, as he sat on the floor holding her, the bathroom was barely big enough for both of them with their long legs, but they just made it. He put the ice pack on the back of her neck, and the wet cloth on her forehead. And for an instant, she opened her eyes and looked up at him, but she didn't speak. She couldn't.

He flushed the toilet for her, and put the lid down, and after a little while, he laid her down on the pillow, and covered her with a blanket. She was grateful for all of it, and he sat with her the entire time, watching her, holding her hand, and saying nothing.

It was almost an hour later when she finally spoke to him, in a soft voice. She was completely drained, and even talking was an effort. “I think I can get up now.”

“Why don't you lie here for a while?” he said softly, and then he had a better idea. “I'm going to move you, Alex. Don't do anything. Just let yourself go.” She had stopped vomiting long enough to be moved to the other room, and with no effort at all, he scooped her up, surprised at how light she was for her size, and laid her down on the gray leather couch in her office. It felt wonderful to her, and he put the pillow under her head and the blanket over her. She was mildly ashamed of herself for giving up so completely, but she didn't really care. She was just grateful that he was there to help her.

“Lock the door,” she whispered to him as he stood next to her, like a mother watching her baby.

“Why?”

“I don't want anyone to walk in and see me.” She had assured everyone that she was going to be able to work during chemotherapy, and this was hardly an auspicious beginning.

He did what she asked, and then came to sit in a chair next to her. He didn't want to leave her alone, but she did look a little better.

“Do you want me to take you home?” he asked cautiously, but she shook her head in answer to the question.

“I'm staying.”

“Do you want to sleep for a while?”

“I'll just lie here. “¥bu work I'll get up in a few minutes.”

“Are you serious?” He was amazed at her. He had never admired her more than at this moment. She refused to give up or to be beaten. She was a real trouper.

“Tes,” she answered him. “You work …and Brock? …” She was whispering and so was he. “Thank you.”

“Never mind. That's what friends are for.” It only saddened her to know that Sam couldn't do this.

Brock turned off some of the lights, and she lay there for a while with her eyes closed, and then half an hour later, she got up and joined him at her desk. She looked a little rumpled and her hair was mussed, and her voice was hoarse, but she was ready to go back to work, and neither of them mentioned what had happened.

He remembered to unlock the door, and Liz came in with tea and coffee and a snack, and no one was any the wiser. And at five o'clock Brock walked her to the elevator, and carried her briefcase.

“I'll catch a cab for you, and then come back up,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Don't you have anything else to do than help old ladies across the street?” she teased, but they had become friends that afternoon, and she knew she wouldn't forget it for a lifetime. She didn't know what she had done to deserve that kind of friendship from him, but it had made an enormous impression. “You must have been a Boy Scout.”

“Matter of fact, I was. There was nothing else to do in Illinois. Besides, I've always had a soft spot for old ladies.”

“Apparently,” she grinned at him. She felt about a thousand years old at that moment, but he thought she was remarkable.

It took him a few minutes to catch a cab, and he told her to wait inside while he did. She was about to argue with him, but he didn't hang around to discuss it with her, and he was very firm in his directions. He had already paid the taxi for her, so no one else would hijack it, when he came back inside to get her.

“All set.” He put her in and waved as she drove off, still amazed at all he'd done for her. She wondered how she would ever thank him. And by the time she got home to Annabelle, she felt like a dishrag. She would have liked to have a warm bath with her, but Annabelle still hadn't seen her scar, and she had no intention of letting her see it. So she had a bath by herself with her bathroom door locked, and sat at dinner with Annabelle, but ate nothing. She said she was going to eat later, with Daddy.

He came home at seven o'clock just before Annabelle went to bed, and read her a story. And then he and Alex sat down to the dinner Carmen had left them. But Alex only picked at her food. In spite of making an effort to eat it, she just couldn't.

“Did things get better today?” he asked, as solicitously as he could, although Alex clearly had the feeling he didn't really want to discuss it.

“I was fine,” she said, eliminating totally the report that she had spent an hour on the bathroom floor of her office, and another half hour on the couch, with Brock Stevens holding her ice pack. “I have a lot of new cases.” It was what he wanted to hear, even if it was only part of the story.