The Alignment (10 page)

I find his newspaper in the kitchen, the one he pretends to read to avoid talking to me. The paper catches fast, curling and writhing and igniting everything else. I close the screen and return to my book on the couch, hoping he won’t be too mad I burned his precious newspaper. How could he be? He’s still limp on the floor, as unthreatening as a tranquilized animal. Maybe I should tag him and release him back into the wild.

The flicker and crackle of the fire is like another sentient being in the room, a comfort in the stillness I didn’t realize was missing. But there’s something else missing from this house. This man has no TV. I can’t decide what’s more strange—the vast collection of firepower and medieval torture books in the basement, or the lack of TV. He’s a single guy living alone. I’ve known men who have one in every room.

I read about Ptolemy and Galileo then flip pages until I see a chart of the night sky. It’s easy with the constellations labeled and drawn with lines, but I don’t know how anyone could make sense of this outside in the night, with or without the chart in hand. I check on Trey. Surprised again at his vitality, I can’t find anything I can do for him. The only thing he needs is a shave. A tiny spot of blood marks the towel beneath his ear. It’s a good sign, but I can’t let it fool me. It could always start up again. I put my hand down on the floor on the other side of him and lean over him, memorizing the unpolished perfection of his face. It’s as if I never looked at him until this day. I wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a line-up or recognize him in a crowd. Now his face has characteristics I both see and feel, like he’s someone I once knew, changed by time, the core elements of him still familiar. A part of my memory. My life.

Lines between his eyebrows speak of hardship. If I saw these before, I’d guess he was the cause but now I know better. They remind me too much of me. Maybe that’s what draws people together—one person’s recognition of self in another. A common pain, different in detail but identical in feeling. Once you’ve been there you share a spot in the world with others who have lived through the same. It’s a bit selfish—to sympathize only because you can relate—but that’s human nature.

I need to stop obsessing. It’s moving into stalker territory.

I pull myself away from him to take a shower. After drying off, I gawk at my bruised wrists in the bathroom light and hope it will be cold enough for long sleeves tomorrow. Unfortunately, I don’t think I have any long-sleeved shirts with me here.

Walking out of the warm bathroom into the hall is like stepping foot on a glacier. I squeeze back into the bedroom and go through Trey’s closet, find a flannel robe and wrap it around me. I also find a long-sleeved shirt I could wear as a dress, but if I tuck it in it will be fine under my scrubs. I lay it out on the bed, go into the laundry room and fold the scrubs from the dryer. The pile of bloody blankets and towels isn’t going anywhere. It looks like someone was murdered. Everything needs to be scrubbed, and even then I doubt I will get all the blood stains out. Tomorrow. I’m done for the night.

The switch on the thermostat in the hall points to off, so I flip it to the on position. The furnace kicks on in the basement. I put a few more logs on the fire and wait for the furnace to heat the house. Impatience causes me to wander back into the kitchen, where to my utter surprise I find myself looking in the herb cabinet again. Infuriating! And I must admit a little comical—Trey Bevan is a drug pusher, and now I’m addicted to some weird plant that’s probably illegal. I wonder about his intentions. Was he innocently trying to relieve my stomach, or is it more like a “first one’s free” deal? When he wakes up, I’ll have to fake my nausea to get some more of that stuff, whatever it was. Dr. Bevan’s going to have to write me a prescription for a year’s supply. And after bathing him and doing all his laundry, I’m not paying him a dime.

Harboring a taste for something sweet, I look in the refrigerator then the freezer and settle on a giant carton of cookie dough ice cream that seems out of place among all the healthy food. I guess everyone has their vice. I hope he doesn’t mind sharing. I’ll be sure to tell him ice cream is going to undo all his effort. It’s going to lead to worse things, like chili cheese corn chips and—oh god—white bread. What then? He’ll lose his special parking spot at the monastery. He’ll be shunned by his Paleo Diet crowd. Utter ruin.

With my bowl of ice cream, I return to the living room where the warmth of the fire reminds me how cold the rest of the house still is. The furnace should be running. I strain to hear the hum through the floor, but it’s as quiet as it has been all day. I flip the thermostat off then back on. The furnace kicks on again, so I find a floor vent and stand on it. It blows cool air. After a minute or so, it shuts off. Great.

I put my ice cream on the kitchen counter and go downstairs. Staring at the furnace does nothing but remind me how not mechanically inclined I am. Isn’t there some kind of pilot light that has to be on? I look the thing up and down and peek in all the vents but see nothing obvious. I’ve no idea what a pilot light even looks like. I see a power switch, so I switch it off then back on. It starts up. I’m halfway up the stairs when it shuts off again.

“Crap,” I say aloud.

I return to the kitchen. It’s probably a bad idea to eat ice cream with no working furnace, but I can’t let it go to waste. I take my bowl back to the couch and fold my legs underneath me. Trey needs the one clean quilt in the house more than I do, so I squeeze past the bureau back into the bedroom and start layering on his clothes—a sweatshirt over a thermal shirt, sweatpants, and a pair of his thick socks. It’s so much material I can barely walk. Tomorrow, I’ll need to go by my house and pick up my winter clothes. Montana temperature changes are more drastic than I expected. I put as many logs on the fire as seems safe, and, respecting what I know would be Trey’s wishes, I make myself comfortable on the couch.

Chapter 13

Liv

T
he chattering of
my teeth wakes me up in the middle of the night. My half-asleep reflex reloads the dwindling fire with logs and stokes it until wood hisses and flames flap high. I climb under the quilt on the floor, snuggle up to Trey’s blissfully warm body, and fall into instant sleep.

Not much later I wake up covered in sweat and strip off all the extra clothes. The air outside the quilt chills my damp skin before I slide back underneath, pull it up to my chin, and press against him. The pulse of the fire’s glow gives every shadow two legs, shoulders, and a head. I fall back asleep knowing if anyone is coming for us, I’ll die knowing there was nothing more I could do.

Extracting myself from my pocket of warmth under the covers when the alarm goes off seems like some horrible injustice. The cold silence and smell of ash in the room confirm the fire’s been out for hours, even though I woke up several times to feed it. Turning over, I try to ignore the sweep of his skin against my back and notice the pile of my discarded clothes. How cliché this is. Two people who hate each other, forced to conserve body heat in the cold. Only I don’t exactly hate him anymore. And there was no force necessary because he’s not exactly conscious.

The strangest part, though, is my quality of sleep. Unmedicated sleep. On the floor, in the cold, next to Mr. Scowl. This must be the longest I’ve gone without a sleeping pill. By now I should be wanting to choke down the whole bottle.

I flip the quilt off, sit up, and look at his face. His slightly parted lips, his eyelashes brushing his cheeks. If he finds out about the change that’s evolved inside me, I don’t know how he’ll react. Or how I’ll hide it from him. My stomach flips at the thought of telling him. The biggest asshole I’ve ever met, and I have a thing for him. I hardly believe it myself.

I get up, make coffee, get dressed, and eat some cereal and scrambled eggs. I tend to Trey, making sure he’ll be comfortable while I’m gone. He looks impossibly vibrant, almost more alive than when he’s conscious. If anyone saw him now, they’d never believe the extent of his injuries only two days ago. My own memory of it seems more like some illusion. I leave a glass of water, a granola bar, and an empty plastic bottle next to him, in case he wakes up too groggy to make it to the bathroom.

Before I leave, I check myself in the mirror. The long sleeves cover the purpled skin on my wrists. I’ll probably need to roll the sleeves up at work, but I’ll just have to say I got the bruises in the car accident and hope no one looks too closely.

I step onto the front porch, scanning the yard. If they wanted me they had all day yesterday to march in and kill me. I’m not any more exposed outside even though it feels that way. Once safe in my car, I shut the door and lock it. Fear for my own personal safety dissolves under an onslaught of worry for Trey. This is going to be a long day.

My first task proves it in an unexpected way. I’m sent straight into my own emotional war—attending a birth. There’s a quiver in my legs when I near the patient’s room. I want to get lost somewhere. Hide in the air ducts. I want to go home to Trey. I should’ve told them no Labor and Delivery, but then they’d ask why. This isn’t the kind of place you can make requests like that. We all have to cover for each other. If I can’t suck it up and put my patients’ needs first, I’m a failure. I square my shoulders and open the door.

Dr. Wu looks at me over his spectacles, surprised. A gray-haired woman stops mid-sentence to squint at me from the exam table. I’m in the wrong room. I stammer an apology and let myself out. The room’s number tells me I’m on the wrong damn floor. I start walking to dispel the sickening heat on my skin, my broken cool threatening to send me home like a coward. I find the correct room in a daze and knock before pushing my way in without a second thought.

The nurse inside tells me the mother wants no meds. We’re checking mother’s vitals and baby’s heart rate every fifteen minutes and otherwise staying out of the mother’s way unless she or her doula asks for something. I’d love to keep much farther out of her way, but something makes me think of Trey and for some reason I’m able to give her the thumbs-up. Every check of the baby’s heart rate is like a kick in the stomach. I try not to imagine that heartbeat slowing down. Becoming still.

After two hours another nurse comes to relieve me. A panicked run from the room would only prove how unstable I am, so I take each step with defiant care. On my way down the hall, I pause in front of the supply closet. The hallway is empty in both directions. Now is my chance. I go to the break room and grab my bag. After slipping inside the supply closet, I shove a catheter and IV supplies into my bag then return it to my locker. Somehow, I’ll figure out a way to replace it.

Now alone with my thoughts, I can’t put a damper on my paralyzing worry for Trey. They could have been waiting for me to leave so they could finish him off. A silly idea—I’m no obstacle for them. But maybe they thought I would call the police, so they patiently waited for me to leave so they could carry out their sick plan with one less complication.

“Liv, I have a patient waiting to have a cast removed. He’s been waiting a while now. Can you take him?” Rachel’s voice invades my fantasy world. “Liv?”

“Sure.” I remove the cast for a little boy who’s elated to be able to see his skin again. As I’m cleaning up and trying not to check the clock every minute, Dr. Wu sticks his head in the room.

“Liv, our laboring mother is asking for you. Could you stay with her?”

“Absolutely.” It’s the last place I want to be but at least it will take my mind off Trey. I gobble down my lunch then return to the room. The clock has been removed from the wall. I have no opportunity to leave her, no chance to slip out and go check on Trey like I’d planned. When Dr. Wu and another nurse come in, I ask for the time. It’s been three hours. That means Trey’s been alone for seven.

No one’s more relieved than me to see the baby born wiggling and crying. In my dreams they all die. At birth, as crawlers, as toddlers. Just when I think one has survived past the red X on the calendar, I open the door and find another baby dead in a crib. On a rug. In the grass. In a car. My dreams like to be creative.

Everyone is crying—mother, father, baby. Except me. I can’t begin or I’ll never stop. Eight fingernails digging into my palms keep it on lockdown. Until I can escape.

It’s an hour past my shift. I get my bag and head to the entrance of the clinic, trying hard not to break into a run. Rachel catches me before I make it through the door.

“Liv, I know you’re leaving, but no one else is available to give a tetanus shot. Could you do it really quick?”

“Sure, Rachel.” I reach for the chart, feeling suddenly short of breath. My desperation to get back to Trey intensifies with every passing second.

Fifteen minutes later I’m running to my car. Forget going by my place for more clothes. I am sick with worry for Trey.

Everything looks normal when I pull up to the house. River greets the parked car, and I hop out and pat her on the head in an attempt to slow my frenzied pace. I go inside, step out of my shoes, and drop my bag to the floor. With the borrowed medical equipment in hand, I hurry into the living room.

All I see is a rumpled blanket on the floor.

He’s gone. Oh my god he’s gone. I look around frantically. Every object in the room has turned unfamiliar and menacing. Shadows alive with murderers. My breath sounds hollow in my chest. I recognize panic and push it far away. I have to find him. He could still be here, need my help. My footsteps pound into the kitchen. Back to the living room. Into the bedroom. The bathroom. I run back outside to the front yard.

“Trey!” They got him. And if they got him, they’ll get me too.

“Trey!” I scream again, knowing no one will hear. The wind answers, shoving the trees around like it’s just a warning. Like it could do so much more.

“Hope you weren’t planning to use that stuff on me.”

I whirl around. He must have come around the house. He’s wearing the sweatpants I discarded in the middle of the night and nothing else. I follow his gaze and realize I’m still holding the catheter and IV.

He smiles. I didn’t know he could smile. It turns my stomach into one of those trees, tossed around like a plaything.

“What are you
doing
out here?” I demand.

“Had something I needed to take care of.”

“With no jacket on? No shoes?”

“Okay, mom.” He walks toward me. A gentler gust of wind ruffles his hair.

The earth under my feet has gone spongy. Someone, please, slap me out of this. “It’s like forty degrees out here.”

“Feels good to me. I’m burning up.”

“You probably have a fever.” I quickly close the gap between us to feel his forehead.

He lowers my hand. “You really don’t need to worry about me.”

I fall off a cliff into his eyes. I don’t find my voice until he looks away. It takes much too long. “Well I wish you had told me that this morning. I could have saved myself the worry all day. Oh, but you couldn’t have told me. You were in a coma.”

“I was?” His eyes dart back to mine. He’s playing with me.

“It’s not funny.” I force myself to glare up at him. He stares down. Eyes inhabited by the dusty green of coniferous forest. And that soft dark hair. My stomach does a pirouette without me. He’s going to draw this moment out again, and I won’t be left standing.

I turn and go back into the house. I drop the supplies in my bag to return to the clinic tomorrow and notice my damp, grass-stained socks. I hold the wall to remove them one at a time. Montana’s biggest asshole is awake, and I went running outside in my socks like a fool to find him. I can’t imagine what has made him so undeniably appealing to me now.

He comes in behind me. “I see you took the opportunity to raid my closet while I couldn’t protest.”

I stop to look at him. This has to be the most he’s ever talked to me when we’re both sober. He’s actually pursuing the conversation, if you could call it that.

“Well considering your furnace is broken, and you were lying on all the blankets, I really didn’t have any other options.”

“The furnace is broken at the clinic too?” He gestures toward what I’m wearing.

Now I can’t tell if he’s playing with me or actually irritated. I pause, wondering if I should control my tone. “Did you really want people to see this?” I push up both sleeves to reveal the bruises on my wrists, which I know must be somehow connected to him.

His smirk fades into a look of alarm. He drops his eyes and looks away so I can’t read his expression. When he speaks, his voice is thick. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” The set of his jaw becomes harsh. He walks past me into the living room.

I follow him and start cleaning up what’s left of the makeshift hospital room. My emotions catch up to me, and I search for strength to cover the loss that washes over me, forcing me to acknowledge a painful truth. I’m back to where I was with him. Only now, everything has changed for me, but nothing has changed for him. It was easier when I hated him. Yet I can’t begin to understand this illogical affection I have for him now. It’s become so integrated it’s a struggle to question at all.

I continue cleaning but can’t help feel like I’ve been fired from a job I love and I’m cleaning out my office, waiting to be escorted out.