Do Not Disturb(46)

Anyway, there’s not much for me to do anymore. Rosalie’s closed three months ago. It fell apart quickly after I stopped working there.

I hear Nick’s heavy footsteps coming up to the second floor. I glance down on my watch—it’s the middle of the day. Sometimes he’ll come home for lunch, but that was two hours ago. I wonder what he’s doing home.

The thought of it makes me uneasy.

Nick appears at the bedroom door. There are faint purple circles under his eyes, but he manages a thin smile. He doesn’t smile for real very much these days. That’s fair though. He doesn’t have a lot to smile about.

“Hi,” I say.

He glances over my shoulder, at the bedroom window. “It’s stuffy in here. You should open the window. It’s a nice day outside.”

“I’m fine.”

But he still pushes past me and walks over to the window. I back up a few inches in my wheelchair. I use the chair all the time now. I gave up on walking several months ago, around when Rosalie’s shut down. The amount of effort it takes to take a few steps isn’t worth it.

Nick throws the window open. I suppose it’s nice outside—the same cool spring day when Nick first took me out to see the restaurant all those years ago. But I’ve lost so much weight in the last two years that the breeze goes straight through me, and I shiver. Sometimes it feels like my skin is hanging off my bones.

“Better, right?” he says.

I nod, because it’s easier than arguing. I’ll close it again when he leaves.

“Maybe we could go outside together?” he says.

I cringe. “I don’t want to deal with the stairs.”

He blows out a breath. “You know, I can convert the dining room into a bedroom. I told you I could—”

“It’s fine. I don’t feel like going outside anyway.”

Nick mumbles something under his breath that I can’t make out. It’s probably better I didn’t hear it.

“What are you doing home?” I ask him.

He frowns and wrings his hands together. He’s here for a reason. He didn’t just come up here to open the window. He may as well spit it out already.

“Don’t be mad,” he says, “but I called Dr. Heller yesterday.”

I look up at him sharply. Why would he call my neurologist without my permission? “Excuse me?”

“Look, you just seem…” He sinks down onto the bed so he can see eye to eye with me. “I’m worried about you, Rosie.”

“So what brilliant insight did Dr. Heller have?”

He pushes on, ignoring my sarcasm. “She thought you should do a course of physical therapy.”

“Physical therapy?”

He nods eagerly. “I’ll take you to the appointments,” he says. “Will you go, Rosie?”

“What’s the point?” I say bitterly. “How am I supposed to walk better if I can barely move my legs?”

“Not for that,” he says. “Dr. Heller said it would help you get more independent, so I wouldn’t have to—”

I glare at him. “Oh, I get it now. You’re sick of helping me with every damn thing.”

I shouldn’t be surprised. Nick does a lot for me. He helps me in and out of bed—he even helps me into the shower and to get dressed in the morning. Even though I’m the chef in the family, he brings me all my meals now. He does everything for me. He never even complains. Not until now.

“Rosie, that’s not—”

“Just admit it, Nick. It’s not like anyone would blame you.”

He hangs his head. “Don’t do this. I’m just trying to help.”

I study his face. “Did Dr. Heller have any other helpful advice?”

After an interminable pause, he digs into his pocket and pulls out a little orange bottle of pills. I inhale sharply.

“What’s that?”

“They’re antidepressants,” he says. “Dr. Heller thought they might help.”

“Oh God.”

“Rosie…”

“I’m not taking those,” I say. “I don’t have depression. My situation is the problem. Anyone would be depressed in my situation.”

“They still might help.” He tries to reach for my hand, but I pull away. “Please, Rosie. Just try it. For a few weeks. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to keep taking them. But maybe they’ll help.”

I look into his eyes. He still loves me, for some reason. He’s just trying to help.

“Fine.” I accept the bottle. “I’ll try them for a few weeks.”

But that night, I flush all the pills down the toilet.

_____



Whenever I hear footsteps on the stairs, my heart leaps into my chest.

It’s almost always Nick. Who else would it be, visiting me in the middle of the day? That butterflies sensation reminds me of when we were first dating, of how excited I used to be to see him.

Except that’s not why I get butterflies now. I’m worried that any day now, Nick will throw up his hands. Tell me he’s done with me. He’s had enough.

It hasn’t happened yet, but it will. A person can only take so much.

But this time, it’s not Nick at all. It’s the silver haired, elderly woman who has permanently moved into one of the rooms at the motel. Her name is Greta, and she and Nick struck up a deal for a reasonable monthly rate to allow her to live at the motel long term.