Candle in the Attic Window(31)
The soup gone, she set the bowl on the floor next to the bed. She’d move it in the morning. Her throat was still parched and she glanced toward the kitchen. It wasn’t that far away, but it would take too much effort to get there and find a glass, turn on the faucet and then come all the way back. Her throat clicked and she sighed. Got out of bed and made her way to the kitchen.
Sunlight and cold linoleum woke her up. Her face was pressed against the cabinet under the sink, feet curled up behind her. What had happened? Why was she in the kitchen? She sat up weakly, muscles protesting. The groove etched in her face from the cabinet began to tingle and she rubbed it absently.
The daily sounds of passing cars and people drifted in through the open window. She stood up and drank half a glass of water, filled it again and took it with her back to bed. She thought about calling work and decided against it. She wasn’t to come back without a doctor’s note, so she supposed she would not be going back at all.
She sipped at the water, which was gone too soon, and lay back on the bed. Looked out the window. A group of people walked by, laughing and pushing each other jokingly. The group passed, but one person stayed behind. He stared up at Lorena’s window, dark eyes locked with hers. It was him. Still in his leather jacket and jeans. Didn’t he own any other clothes? Maybe he was like the guy she went to high school with, who owned five black t-shirts and three pairs of Levis 550 jeans. He thought it was a big joke that everybody thought he wore the same thing every day. Maybe that’s what he did. She had the urge to run down and ask him. To run her fingers through his hair, pull his face toward her and not let him go. She ran fingers through her own hair, feeling the spikes of early-morning hair, the grease from days of not washing it. Like he’d let her anywhere near him. She looked down, again, and he was gone, again. Dammit.
Her stomach twinged. She stumbled to the bathroom and saw how wasted she looked. Pale skin and wizened eyes. At least ten years older than she had looked last week. One thing she had to admit, though, was that she’d been sleeping better since she’d been sick. Not, she noted, that it seemed to be doing her much good. Always thin, she now looked anorexic, like she’d been starving herself. Goddamned flu. Maybe I will go to a doctor. I can hike to the bus stop and go to ReadyMed.
Shower first. All she needed was a few minutes under the spray, but Lorena didn’t think she could handle even that. She grabbed a shriveled washrag from the rack in the shower and ran it under cold water in the sink. Wiped at her armpits and under her breasts, breasts that felt like tight little bags too close to her skin. She grimaced in disgust and stuck her head under the running water, soaking her hair and washing it with liquid soap. She splashed her face and patted it dry. Ran a toothbrush through her mouth. Rolled on deodorant. She sat naked on the toilet seat for a few minutes, trying to catch her breath, to let her muscles stop screaming at her. Breath came too quickly and her head began its slow beat. If she could only get dressed and then to the doctor, she might be all right.
She grabbed the faded black shirt she had left on the towel rack two days ago and pulled it over her head. Shuffled the few feet back to the bed and lay down. Just for a moment. A short rest on top of the sheets and everything would be fine. She’d go the bus stop, to the doctor.
Lorena woke to feel the t-shirt soaked with sick-sweat, the cotton clinging claustrophobically. Not today. No way would she make the doctor today. She glanced over at the kitchen counter and saw there was only one more can of soup left, but she still had the box of crackers, three of the plastic packages still unopened. She’d be all right until the flu passed. She just needed to rest.
She wrapped herself in covers that stank of illness and once again looked out the window. Slept.
The next time she woke up, she knew it was now or never. She had to get help. The sun had set, so she knew the clinic would not be open, but the hospital didn’t close – did it? She’d find out. She pulled on sweat pants and tennis shoes and made it over to the front door. Opened it.
“Hi,” he said. He leaned on the doorframe as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if they knew each other. As if he belonged.
“Hi,” she said, surprised. “I, uh, I’m on my way out.” Her voice was a croak, not hers. She tried to stop her hand from running over her still-wet hair, attempting to fix it in some sort of attractive style.
He walked in, as if invited. “I needed to see you,” he said.
“Excuse me?” Lorena was sure she was dreaming. Who was this guy? He looked different somehow. His cheeks, the bones still prominent, were more filled in. His eyes brighter, the orange flecks more solid than the green. Even the way he stood was somehow different. How can I know this from seeing him a few times? “Why would you need to see me? You don’t even – I don’t even know who you are.” Liar, her body said. Even if she didn’t know, her body did. It stood at attention; every muscle seeming to call out to him.
She wasn’t sure how it happened, but the two of them became tangled. It didn’t matter that her mouth was full of fuzz, that she smelled like a sickbed. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know him, his name or who he was. She was not altogether convinced she wasn’t dreaming. Things like this didn’t happen in real life. His lips were firmer than in her fantasies. Warm and smooth like his hands, his hips. It didn’t matter that the wooden floor was hard and dirty, because he was hard and clean, smelling faintly of red licorice, tasting of lemon. She took him inside of her, blocking out thoughts of AIDS and herpes and unwanted pregnancy. Nothing could happen to her here. This was bliss, a dream.