“Who?” I fight to keep my composure and light tone. I have a sinking feeling some stories in Eliza’s past will gut me.
A soft groan as she tosses is her only reply.
“Your ex?” I ask her, already plotting his disappearance, but Eliza shakes her head.
The next question gets lodged in my dry throat and I swallow hard before voicing my suspicion, “Foster parents?”
“Sleep it off,” Eliza murmurs, her eyelids swollen and heavy. “One time I was hallucinating so bad from a fever I thought my parents were sitting on the edge of the bed holding my hand. It was stupid. I have no idea what they look like,” she sounds detached.
A hot pulsing rage is at odds with the need to cradle this delicate woman who’s been through so much. But I sit as still as I can, watching her breathing becoming more even. The hard lines around her eyes and mouth mellow while her body relaxes, and she sinks into a deep sleep.
That’s where the midday warmth finds me, and I finally move to open a window and give Eliza her treatment.
“I’ll pay you back,” she says as soon as she’s alert. “Don’t worry.”
I’m offended this is her first thought. I’ve noticed already she hates asking for help. The aftermath of myregrettable choice of words gives me a hint as to why that is. I won’t push the subject now when she’s so frail.
“What made you sick?”
She scoots lower, covering herself instead of giving an answer.
“I have to know,” I plead with her. What if it’s something from the fridge?
“It’s nothing,” Eliza’s faint voice is muffled under the sheets.
“It is if I eat it by accident. I can’t get this sick.” I’m miles away from a decent hospital if I had complications.
“Oh, no. It’s nothing from your food.”
The statement gives me pause. “My food? We live in the same house.”
What is she talking about? It’s true, we haven’t eaten together. I thought she wanted to enjoy her meals in peace. Away from me.
“Not everybody can afford—” she begins, but stops herself.
What the hell? What is she eating?
I let her rest and call my doctor. He’ll know if I need to do something more for her.
“Any symptoms?” He sounds worried.
“I’m fine. We’d be having this conversation in my suite at the hospital if I felt the way she looks.”
“The pharmacist is correct. The treatment will have her in better shape in a couple of days,” he rustles his charts over the background noise of medical equipment. “The most important part is to keep her hydrated, rested, and on certain foods. I’ll send you a list.”
Before I hang up, he doesn’t miss the opportunity to pester me, “Don’t forget about the tests next month.”
The following days Eliza reluctantly accepts my help. Probably because she can barely make it to the bathroom without collapsing. My offer to get her into the shower is met with a hard no so I’m left pacing outside while she sounds like she’s on the brink of death.
“I’ll be honest,” she says, munching on the limited edition whole-grain crackers made by Quinn, who interrogated me the moment I made the stupid decision to answer Eliza’s phone when I saw the caller. She scolded me quite rudely when I told her the stores didn’t have any. “You taking care of me is weird.”
“My calendar is wide open,” is the single sliver of truth I’m open to sharing, because taking care of Eliza came too effortlessly to admit.
What a terrifying thought.
HerGood morningscome on the crest of that slightly husky voice when she’s still sleepy. The two words make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“No, I ate before you woke up.” This thing again. Her feverish ramblings made me pay closer attention to a certain pattern.
