And, from here, I can see into what must be Gus’s room, one of those French windows letting in dim light that reflects off the building across the street, the offices above the drug store. There are several toys on the floor, a poster of an anatomically correctdinosaur on the wall. A green and blue duvet that’s pulled half onto the floor, clothes strewn, a single tiny sock right in the threshold.
My mind itches with curiosity about Jules’ bedroom. It must be around the corner, down the hallway between the kitchen and the stacked washer and dryer set into the wall.
“Gus,” Jules says softly, rounding the couch and leaning down, her hand reaching out for something. When I move closer, I see her running her fingers through the boy’s hair, and for the first time he turns and looks up at me. Slightly flushed, his dark hair damp with sweat. “Dr. Burch is here, and he’s going to take a look at you and make sure you’re not too sick.”
If he thinks it’s weird to see his cardiologist standing in his living room, he doesn’t show it.
“Hi,” he rasps, giving me a weak smile. His face is flushed, his cheek even darker with a red mark from resting it against the coffee table. On the TV, dogs bound around on the screen, one of them spraying water and shouting.
“Hi,” I say, waiting for my professional voice to take over. Any time I’m working with kids in the hospital, I almost get into character. Your friendly neighborhood pediatric heart surgeon, with a gentle voice and goofy smile. But that doesn’t quite happen.
For some reason, talking to Gus feels different, and I go on, “I heard you weren’t feeling good?”
Gus’s brow wrinkles, and he coughs, “I’m feeling bad,” he says, his eyes a bit unfocused. “Mommy doesn’t know if I’m good.”
I raise my eyebrows and look at Jules, who shakes her head and runs a hand through her hair, which only accentuates the nipple problem. My eyes drop to her chest almost of their own accord, and I see her cheeks flush.
“I’ll be right back,” she whispers, crossing her arms over her chest and glancing at Gus. “Andthatis out of context. I think you areverygood, Gus.”
When Jules disappears down the hallway between the tiny laundry room and the kitchen—I must have been right about the location of her bedroom—I make myself busy taking out the soup and supplies. I stash some of the electrolyte drinks in the fridge, pull out Popsicles and set them in the freezer.
This should feel less comfortable than it does. Me in her apartment, having really only just met her. But there’s something…familiar about everything here. Deja vu. Like in another life, this might have been my apartment, and Jules and Gus might have been my family.
I pause, running my fist over my chin and trying to erase that strange feeling.
“What is that?” a voice asks, and I look down to see Gus standing next to the counter, pointing at the chicken noodle soup. His dark hair is a mess, and one leg of his pajamas is hiked up around his knee. Without thinking, I bend down and tug on the cuff, so it falls right back down to his ankle. Gus doesn’t even flinch, just accepting the movement like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Do you like chicken noodle soup?” I ask, straightening up. Gus nods. “Would you like some?” Gus nods again, and together we find a bowl and spoon—plastic ones, which I assume are for him—and I dish him up a serving.
Deli soup is a tradition from when I was a kid. My dad was a shit cook and couldn’t bring us to the hospital when we were sick. So, he’d disappear and return with plastic containers of chicken noodle from the deli down the street, insisting we eat nothing but that until we were better.
Since then, I’ve read a few scientific articles about soup. Easy to digest, bone broths with sufficient nutrients. Hydrating. It only makes sense, from a medical standpoint, why it would help.
But I suspect it has something to do with the comfort, too. Associating the smell and taste of it with getting better.
Gus climbs up onto a stool and takes small, careful bites, blowing on the spoon in a manner that reminds me of Jules, and tells me he’s copying her, making sure his food isn’t too hot.
“Sorry about that,” Jules says, bustling back into the kitchen, now in a pair of sweatpants, a thicker t-shirt, and a bra. I feel a pang of regret and push it away.
While Gus eats, I take his temperature with a forehead test, and it comes back only slightly high. Jules fetches his water bottle from the living room and fills it for him, and together she and I watch him eat the soup while Jules tells me about his symptoms.
Light cough, and a low fever. Scratchy throat. She was right—it sounds just like a cold. Gus can’t get the flu shot because of his heart, and every year it terrifies her that he’s going to catch it, and that his heart condition will make it even worse.
“For now, I think you should hold off on any medicine,” I say, eyes flicking to the Motrin on the counter. “It doesn’t look like influenza to me. Later, if he’s having trouble sleeping, I’d give it to him, but otherwise it’s good to let the fever do its job.”
Gus finishes his soup and returns to the living room, and Jules whispers, “This is the first thing he’s had all day. I can’t believe he ate for you so easily.”
It shouldn’t fill me with pride, the fact that he liked the deli soup. It’s not like I cooked it. But, still, there’s a sense of having done something right that I can’t shake.
Jules stands at the periphery of the kitchen, her eyes darting between me and Gus in the living room. Finally, I turn to her, raising an eyebrow.
“What is it?”
She startles, and for the first time, I register how tired she looks—bags under her eyes, a general sense of leaning, like her body just wants her to lay down.
“I was…would it be weird if I took a shower?” she asks, swallowing. The thought of her in the shower, the water running over her body, is almost enough to break my composure, but I hold it. “I haven’t had a chance to, since I’ve been keeping an eye on him.”
I blink away the image of her supple hips under the sluice of warm water. This is a platonic arrangement between us. Nothing more.
