Huh. I squint up at him. I’m obviously sick. I’m fatigued and freezing and hallucinating images of my estranged husband. I figured I was in critical condition. But maybe this is just an urgent care or a doctor’s office. Who knows?
I open my mouth, though I’m not quite sure why, and he places the thermometer under my tongue. I stare at him as I wait, and he watches me in return. His lips twitch in the oddest way. As if he’s fighting back a smile. Though that doesn’t make much sense.
A timer dings on his phone and he pulls out the thermometer. He takes a look at the temperature, and his brows crease. “It’s high,” he says quietly, like he’s saying it more to himself than to me.
I don’t really care what my temperature is. I just want to go back to sleep. My eyelids are so heavy. Staying awake is taking every spare bit of energy I have.
“Wait,” he says, noticing I’m about to nod back off. “Take these first.” He presses a couple pills into my hand and helps me sit up. Igrumble the whole way but reluctantly comply. He brings a glass of water to my lips, and I swallow, but he’s not satisfied until I finish the whole glass, which is just too much. I tell him he’s being bossy, and he laughs in response. I’m getting pretty tired of that laugh. Except there’s a tiny part of me that wants to hear it again. Wants to make him laugh some more.
“I’m going to sleep,” I tell him, lying down again. I shift back and forth a bit, getting comfortable.
My eyes slide shut, and I almost shiver with pleasure when his hand returns to my hair. He smooths it back, away from my forehead, but again the whole thing is over too quick.
“Do that again. Please,” I say. “You’re so warm.”
He’s quiet for a few seconds. And then his hand returns. I sigh with relief.
“So, I noticed you don’t wear a wedding ring,” he says.
“Yeah, well,” I mumble. “I’m trying not to be married anymore.”
His hand pauses midstroke, then resumes. “Why is that?” he asks. “This husband of yours…is he…is he that terrible?”
I’m so tired. My consciousness is slipping away fast, but something swift and defensive rises in me. Something that insists I answer him.
“No,” I say. “Not at all.”
“Then,why—” His voice breaks on the word, and he starts again. “Meena, why—”
He keeps talking, and I try to pay attention. The way he says my name…it’s almost like he knows me. Reallyknowsme. But his voice fades, growing quieter and quieter. Darkness closes in on me and finally, I’m asleep.
—
My legs kick out at the comforter, desperate for space. For air. Why is this thing wrapped so tight around me? I feel swaddled. Like this fabric is tucked into every nook and cranny of my body. I kick harder.
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s hot,” I say, trying to free myself. “It’s too hot.”
“Of course it is,” he says agreeably, with maybe a tiny hint of sarcasm. But I don’t mind, because a few seconds later, the covers lift away from my body and a cool breeze travels over my skin.
“Better?”
“Yeah.” Except…I’m all clammy. Sweaty. The clothes I’m wearing are sticking to me. They’re making me itch. I’m hot and tired and itchy and it’s all awful.
“I don’t feel good,” I moan.
“I know. I’m sorry, love. I know.”
I turn onto my side, curling into a ball. I don’t want to be here. I’m not sure wherehereis, but it’s not home. It’s not my home. I’m somewhere strange and I want to go home.
“I know. You’ll be home soon. I promise.”
I feel like crying. This man. His voice is so kind. So soft. I want to fall inside it. I can just tell it would be a nice place to land.
“I’m going to run a cold towel over your skin, okay? And then I need to apply this cream. Can you hold still?”
I don’t have the energy to do much else. I try to tell him that, but I can’t. My lips are cracked. Chapped and sore and it hurts to move them.
