“You alright?” I find myself asking through the door, slight panic pecking at my lungs.
“Yeah. I just need a minute,” she croaks.
Her feet drag on the floor and when she opens the door Eliza looks worse than the night I met her, gently rocking side to side.
“What do you want to eat?” she says, her voice hoarse, swaying on her feet. “I have no inspiration today.”
“Hell, no! Go back to bed.” I gently spin her around and guide her to bed in the stuffy and dark room.
I follow Eliza’s shivering back until she collapses on the rumpled sheets. My hand hesitates above her forehead for a split second. What if I get something from her?
But she looks so miserable and small, dark shadows under her eyes. Her pale skin is clammy, and she pulls her knees up, holding her stomach.
I can’t help it. I brush her sweaty forehead with my fingers and a tremor runs through her entire body.
She’s burning up and looks so fragile it pushes me to do something, anything, to make it better.
“Go away,” she commands me in a barely audible voice. “I’m gross. I’m gonna be sick again,” Eliza heaves and I conceal my discomfort for her sake.
“Nonsense. You remind me of my pet iguana,” I say pulling the sheet to her chin. “He used to regurgitate his food and then eat it. It was fascinating.”
The glare she gives me would be withering if she could hold her eyes open.
“That’s until my father found out and disposed of it.”
“So, you’re telling me,” she grunts, holding her midsection tighter, “I remind you of a dead puking iguana?”
“If the shoe fits.”
She’s groggy and the fact she does not fight back worries me.
“Stupid beans,” she mutters, burrowing her face in the pillow.
“What?”
She’s mumbling something I can’t catch, so I don’t press and make myself useful. I give her some water and place a bucket next to the nightstand.
“Just in case,” I tell her, rushing out of the room. I can’t miss the sadness crumpling her face when she realizes I’m leaving and my insides twist into uncomfortable knots.
The little old lady with the purple perm at the local drugstore was more helpful than I could have hoped for. I described Eliza’s symptoms and she sent me on my way with a bag full of meds. The quirky pharmacist even gave me specific instructions for whatmy wifeshould eat in the next few days.
I was in such a hurry to get back I let it slide.
“She’ll be as good as new if you take care of her properly,” the pharmacist said sympathetically.
I give Eliza the pills, but she’s so tired and sick she can’t hold the glass of water and I rush to cup her hands around it.
Her big coffee eyes hold so much dismay, it’s unsettling.
“Why are you so nice to me?” she asks in a small voice, like she can’t believe I’m back at her side taking care of her.
“It would take forever to pack if you kicked the bucket,” I say and drag a chair closer so I can dab her forehead with a wet towel. “I did a really good job at lining up those shirts.”
She nods to herself like what I said made perfect sense, but I don’t want her to think the worst of me this time.
“It’s nothing. I’d bet my company you’d do the same for me. Who would let somebody suffer through this?”
“Some people would,” she whispers, but I’m not sure her words are meant for me. Eliza’s glassy eyes are out of focus, her mind far away.
